The Tyumen Dispute
by CayceG
Summary: My interpretation of a conflict only mentioned in a paragraph of the Combat Records. Follow a Kalugan pilot as he recounts his days in the most violent time of his nation's history.
1. Preface  The Interview

I walked into the tavern not really knowing who it was I was looking for. All I knew was that it was nice to be sheltered from the frigid rain blowing through the streets of Karelia. It began to drizzle when I first left my hotel to come to this cramped little bar. Those 15 blocks were a long, miserable journey through the frigid Kalugan winter. I stepped over to the small fireplace and removed my soaked gloves to warm my hands. I stood there a few seconds, turning my hands slowly as if I were roasting them. I began to look around the tavern to see if I could recognize who it was I was here for. When I received the call at my hotel room earlier in the day I was greeted by a gruff voice on the other end of the line. The man told me that he knew I was looking for him and that he would meet me at this tavern at 5:30. He hung up before I even had a chance to ask his name or what he looked like. The good thing about my search was that there were only a few people in the tavern. I turned around to let the fire warm my backside and surveyed the rest of the place. In the corner by the front window, a group of five men were sharing drinks at a large, round table. A couple of older men sat at the bar on the far end of the room, chatting with the bartender. Near the door, two young men sat at a table speaking softly to one another. They, like me, seemed out of place. No one under the age of forty seemed to belong here. The tavern's décor was mostly wood and stone. The fire cast an orange glow throughout the tavern, contrasting with the deep violet I just came in from. It seemed odd that once you walk out the front door you should be greeted by a small village in the countryside and not the bustling capital of Kaluga. The final person in the tavern was a solitary man in the far corner of the room. His head was hung low, concealing his face. He seemed to be concentrating on something under the table. He sat quietly with a samovar and two tea cups on his table. He was expecting a guest. This was my man. I walked over to the table and introduced myself in Yuktobanian—of which I only knew basic phrases.

"My name is John Adler," I paused then continued in my native tongue. "I believe you contacted me earlier. I apologize for not knowing much Kalugan."

The man looked up from what had kept his attention. He was shuffling a deck of worn out playing cards. He looked at me and motioned to the seat across from him with his cards. I sat down with my back to the fire. He picked up a rubber band from the table and wrapped it around his cards, placing them in his breast pocket.

"The two languages are close enough. Would you like tea?" He replied in English.

"Yes, thank you."

"It's too cold out there for a skinny fellow like yourself," he said with a grin. He seemed to be a generation older than me. He poured me a cup of tea and continued. "Don't worry about speaking Yuktobanian. I don't speak it well either."

"Then it is you," I said, slightly startled. I don't know why I was startled. This man didn't have a ruthless background like most Tyumen Dispute veterans that I had interviewed. In fact, he was the most noble war figure I had ever come across. Perhaps that was why I felt uneasy. He sat the samovar back on the table. I took a long sip of tea and let the liquid warm my insides.

"I am Major Anton Nikolayevich Kazakov. Pleased to meet you Mr. Adler," he said. He looked me in the eyes and a slight chill crept up my back. His eyes were a steely blue color and seemed to grab me and hold me in their gaze. But they weren't the only noticeable part of his face. A thick, brown handlebar moustache sat on his upper lip, slightly hiding his mouth. He finally looked away and took a sip from his tea cup. Some liquid became caught in his moustache, which he quickly licked away. "Why do you wish to interview me? Hardly anyone knows who I am or what I did all those years ago. In fact, my actions weren't even that pivotal to the outcome of the war."

"I disagree. You were somewhat of a legend according to most of the people I've talked with."

"A legend?" he chuckled. A big grin spread across his face as he contemplated my statement. The ends of his moustache curled up and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. He laughed softly. "Nonsense. A fighter pilot can't be a legend now. The days of the noble knights of the skies are over. It's kill or be killed. It isn't jousting and there's nothing to be won afterwards except for those lucky enough to get out with their lives. Besides, I was pegged as nothing more than a traitor when it was all said and done."

I reached into my pocket and removed my notebook. "Do you mind if I take notes?"

"Go ahead. It's your story."

I flipped to a blank page in my notebook and wrote the date. I began with a physical description. Besides the eyes and the moustache, Major Kazakov had other distinguishing qualities I noticed. He was a strongly built man in a small frame. Even with his tattered jacket on I could tell that he was a very well conditioned man. He couldn't have been more than six feet tall. After I jotted down a few things I wrote in big letters FINALLY FOUND HIM at the bottom of the page.

"Well," I said to start things off. "Shall we begin?"

"I thought we had already started," he said with a chuckle as he took another sip of tea.

"I've heard stories about you and your squadron during the war. The accounts vary somewhat, but the general facts are all there in every one. You dominated the skies. How did you make such an impact?"

Kazakov looked down at his tea and took a long breath. "How much of an impact did we really make? We certainly didn't accomplish our main goal from the outset. It took another eight years to actually break free from Yuktobania's grip. At least it wasn't as bloody as the first attempt."

"Yes, the Tyumen Dispute made some headlines all across the world back then for its brutality. I remember reading the stories as a boy. The whole air force was destroyed, right?"

He looked hurt, gazing back into his tea. "Yes," he responded, gruffly. "They wiped us out. But we got a fair amount of their planes too. Can't say I'm too proud of that though. But I suppose it's better to deprive them of an opportunity to kill us any worse than they were already."

"And how many planes did you shoot down?"

"Twenty four," he replied, coldly. "But I only ever saw six parachutes." He reached into his pocket and removed the deck of cards. He unbound them and began shuffling. As Kazakov focused intently on his cards, I began writing again. His demeanor reinforced everything I had heard about his personality. He hated mentioning his fighter kills. "If I could have my way," he began again, "I'd shoot other fighters down in such a way that the pilots would live. But war doesn't allow that."

"Nevertheless, you're good."

He snorted and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He hated to speak about his record and hated even more talking about how skilled he was. "It was nothing more than a desire to survive. Up until the war I was just a mediocre pilot that had only been on training missions. I survived based on learning how the enemy fought and tailoring my style to not let them get me. Anyone could have done it. I'm not special," he said with a frown. "I was just lucky."

Lucky as he may have been, he was still good. His eyesight was better than any other pilot in the Kalugan Air Force. He could spot a small fighter at a distance of fourteen miles on a clear day whereas other pilots usually can't see past ten. He was also terrifyingly accurate with his fighter's cannon. But that was learned more by necessity, as ammo shortages ran rampant near the end of the conflict. In addition to expert marksmanship, Kazakov proved to be a master tactician during his air force career. This proved invaluable during the end of the Dispute when Kazakov was forced to help what was left of the general air staff command. The attrition that occurred diminished the number of air force generals and so the lower ranking officers had to plan missions during those last, desperate days. One mission in particular preserved Kaluga's future.

"And what about The Evacuation? That was your plan, was it not?"

He shot a cold look my direction. Chills went up my spine as those steel eyes stabbed at me. He gulped down the last of his tea and placed the empty cup on its saucer violently. He picked up the cards and began shuffling again.

"You… did save the lives of a lot of people," I said, cautiously.

"So what?" he said coldly, staring at his hands as the cards slapped together. "If your city is under siege and you are seen leaving with a transport full of dignitaries, never to come back, are you supposed to be revered? Will people love you?"

"Those dignitaries came back and led the country to independence in a bloodless revolution. You helped make that happen."

"It doesn't matter. If they hadn't have left the country someone else would have picked up the banner." He put the cards down and leaned over the table, staring into my eyes. "I'm not out for fame or glory. I don't care what people think. But I felt like shit when I got in a plane and took off from that airport, knowing that the Yukes were going to roll right into the capital and take over and I wasn't coming back. But what choice did I have? It was either go with the last group of pilots able to fly or stay and be witness to the carnage."

His voice had grown louder than its previous volume and had attracted the attention of some of the bar patrons. He glanced around the room and regained his composure with a deep breath. "What's it called… survivor's guilt? That's probably a good way to describe my feelings."

"Sounds like you witnessed plenty of carnage earlier on to not feel guilty."

"Maybe so. It still doesn't make one feel like a hero to run away. But I knew when it was time to stop fighting. There's only so much we could do at that point. Running was the only option we had left."

He sat there, staring into the fire. I decided to bring him out of his stupor with something he enjoyed discussing.

"So what is your background? Who did you fly with and what plane did you fly?" I asked. I knew Kazakov loved technical details and I had a feeling he loved talking about his plane too. A childish grin curled his moustache.

"I was in a squadron of Sukhoi-27 air superiority fighters. They were the newest fighters in the air force and I had the pleasure of being in the first operational squadron to receive them. I switched from the MiG-23, our old interceptor that we were retiring at the time. The twenty sevens were amazing machines." He smiled as he thought about the aircraft. I knew this was his passion. "We bought them from Erusea. They were the best thing on the market at the time. Ours were delivered so hastily they didn't even have a paint job. The skin was just bare metal with a silvery, almost shiny tint to it. You could see every panel on the body. Our paint shop on the base didn't really have the time to paint them with the standard camouflage as we needed them for training right away. They put some black flashes on the wingtips and the top of the stabilizers, slapped a roundel on the wings and bort numbers under the cockpits. That was it. It was the best fighter in the world at the time. Except for those damn F-15s Grunder was producing. But the Yukes didn't have those yet. The worst we had to deal with were MiG-31s, MiG-29s and the Yukes' own Su-27s. Those MiG-29s were the worst, though."

"The MiG-29s, that's what the Yukes used in the Battle of Dimitr, right?"

"They used everything in Dimitr. They damn near threw their whole air force at us. But the ones that were there the most often were the MiG-29s."

"The 112th Fighter Squadron, right?"

"I suppose so. We always knew who they were by their paint schemes. Soot black MiGs. And those red roundel badges on the wings really stood out. No one else in the Yuke air force had black planes. And we saw more of them over Dimitr than anywhere else." He changed the subject away from Dimitr quickly. "So am I confirming anything you've heard about me so far?"

"Yes, actually. I'm learning more than I knew though."

Kazakov nodded as he picked up the cards and began shuffling once more. He seemed to accept the fact that he was a sort of living legend. He was the top scoring jet ace of his time and a masterful tactician. Yet it seemed like even Kazakov himself didn't believe it. I finally gathered up the courage to ask what I had wanted to all along.

"Could you tell me exactly what happened to you during the war?"

After a long silence Kazakov raised his head from concentrating on his cards. "I can, but we'll be here all night."

"I have plenty of paper. And what I can't write down, I'm sure to remember it."

"Well, in that case let me get more tea," Kazakov said as he stood up and headed toward the bar.


	2. Chapter 1  In the Annals of History

**Chapter 1 – In the Annals of History**

_Protests rage as runoff elections reveal fraud_

_Interfax Kaluga – Dec. 21, 1985_

_ Thousands of people stood in front of the government complex in the nation's capital today protesting the outcome of the second round of presidential elections. The current president, Stanimir Yubakov, achieved a 58% to 26% victory over opposition leader Viktor Belanovich. However, many citizens and members of the parliament are calling the results fraudulent. Official tallies reported much larger voter turnouts in regions with strong support for Yubakov and unusually low turnout in regions supporting Belanovich. In the Yanos district, overall voter turnout reached 98%, compared to 73% in the initial round of voting. Voter turnout in the Dofetsk and Zaprosdow regions were 121% and 109%, respectively. There have also been reports of Yubakov supporters traveling to different polling locations and intimidating voters. Several hundred thousand new voters were registered before the runoff elections in four pro-Yubakov regions. These regions reported high turnouts compared to the first round. Yubakov won these regions by large margins as well. _

_Due to the widespread discrepancies in the results, members of the parliament are calling for a third round of voting between the two candidates. Protesters have gathered outside the government complex in Karelia in support of Belanovich. They carry signs and shout slogans calling for fair elections. Some more radical groups are burning Yuktobanian flags and denouncing Yuktobanian interference in Kalugan politics. So far no links between Yuktobania have been uncovered. Troops from the Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVS) have been dispatched to keep the peace. _

_The High Court of Kaluga is expected to rule this week on whether the results are valid and if another round of voting will be held. _

_Kalugan Protest turns deadly, 156 killed_

_William Chrystal_

_Foreign Policy Report – Jan. 3, 1986_

_ Tragedy has struck a week ahead of the third round of presidential elections in Kaluga. Protesters and Interior Ministry (MVS) troops clashed yesterday in the capital of Karelia. As of today the death toll was at 156 with hundreds more wounded. The high death toll has been blamed on the brutal tactics used by the security forces to disperse the crowds. _

_ Around 10:00 AM two large groups of protesters organized in the city's main park and set off towards the government complex, which houses the parliament and the office of the president. As they marched down the wide streets of Karelia their numbers increased to an estimated 30,000. By 10:30 the protesters funneled across the Gazat Bridge, which crosses the Karel River and leads to the main square in front of the government complex. Security forces were waiting in the main square. Troops of the MVS equipped with riot gear as well as armored personnel carriers and tanks lined the periphery of the square and blocked off all streets funneling into the square. _

_ The initial actions are sketchy, but reports from protesters say the MVS troops fired on them as they took up positions around the fountain in the main square. First, tear gas was shot into the crowd then security forces charged the protesters and began beating them indiscriminately. Some protesters fought back with what weapons they could find but most tried to retreat across the bridge. Shots were fired by MVS troops into the retreating crowd and more tear gas canisters were fired onto the bridge. The chaos lasted over 20 minutes until the square was empty, save for the bodies of the dead and the security forces. _

_Of the deaths reported, most were caused by either gunfire or trampling. Several died from hypothermia after jumping off the bridge into the frigid Karel River in an attempt to escape the tear gas._

_ This is not the only protest to have occurred in the wake of Kaluga's turbulent elections. Since the December elections there have been at least a dozen large protests in the capital alone. The protest yesterday marks a change in tactics of the Kalugan security forces, controlled by the Yuktobanian puppet, Stanimir Yubakov. Future protests will be marked with a much heavier security presence. However it seems as if this will not deter Kalugan protesters. A march is being planned for sometime in the next two or three days to remember those who were killed yesterday and to call for a peaceful end to this political crisis. _

_Who is supporting Kaluga opposition?_

_Lev Kamanev_

_Yuktobanniy Pravda – Jan. 8, 1986_

_ Kaluga has attracted world attention. The legitimate election that took place over three months ago has been wrongly accused as being fraudulent. Osea and several other allied nations have pledged solidarity with the Kalugan opposition which has resorted to violent tactics to intimidate leaders of the true Kalugan government. At least 20 security troops have been killed in clashes with the protestors. Kalugan opposition sources claim that brutal tactics are being used by the security forces but these claims cannot be confirmed. Unofficial civilian death tolls have been estimated to be as high as 180 but the true number is most likely less than a dozen. _

_ The underlying issue is the question of support. These protests are not led or organized by Kalugan citizens, but rather agents of foreign governments. It is a fact that Erusea has provided Kaluga with advanced jet fighters and surface to air missile systems. The Osean CIA is rumored to be providing the Kalugan ultranationalists with funds, small arms and training. But perhaps the most evident assistance is coming from our own neighbor—Romny. The possibility of a coup in the Romnyan government has been high for the last several months. It is only a matter of time before conspirators turn on the legitimate government there. Yuktobanian State Security has uncovered evidence that radicals in Romny are crossing the border to assist in Kaluga's rebellion. _

_ This shall not stand, comrades! These radical subversives must be put in their place. The opposition in Kaluga must accept the legitimate results of their election and cease all contact with external entities. Otherwise, their time will be short. _

_Results! Yubakov out, Belanovich in!_

_Martin Genette _

_Osean Broadcast Corporation – Jan. 20, 1986_

_ After nearly two months of political battling and bloody protests, the Kalugan presidential race has been decided. Official results from a third round of voting show that Viktor Belanovich, Kalugan opposition candidate, has won 58 percent of the total vote. His opponent, sitting president Stanimir Yubakov, who is allegedly a Yuktobanian puppet leader, only received 31 percent of the vote. This is a far cry from the initial results in December where Belanovich was shown to barely have the support of a quarter of the population. _

_ But the transfer of power may not be smooth. Rumors abound that Yubakov may not give up power so easily. Troops of the Kalugan Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVS) supposedly have orders to blockade the government complex in downtown Karelia. And all signs point to this happening. Just today, Yubakov disbanded Parliament after loud protests from the opposition party members. Members of the opposition, including their leader Ilya Korovko, have vowed to take the seat of government by force if necessary. Fortunately, Yuktobania has not expressed any desires to intervene—officially, that is. _

_ As joy spreads through the cities and towns of Kaluga, a constitutional crisis is unfolding in the capital. The High Court of Kaluga has ruled that the newest election results were legitimate and that the president must give up power. Signs are appearing within the army that they are siding with the Belanovich. With only half of a disbanded parliament and the few hundred troops of the MVS loyal to Yubakov, he has few options left. _

_ Regardless of the victory won today by the people of Kaluga, they will have to fight hard to keep it. The bloody battle for true independence is far from over. _

* * *

><p>January 22, 1986 – Karelia, Kaluga<p>

The sky over the center of Kaluga's capital city hung low and heavy. Dark clouds loomed in overcast skies, slowly beginning to spit snowflakes onto the streets below. The noonday sun was nowhere to be found. A stiff, frosty wind swept through the city. But the people standing in the squares and on the wide boulevards were immune to the frigid blasts. A burning desire for freedom was all they needed for warmth.

There were thousands of them. Citizens from all over Kaluga had come to Karelia to voice their displeasure with their president who was desperately clinging to power. When Stanimir Yubakov disbanded parliament and called on troops of the Ministry of Internal Affairs for support, the public turned against him completely. His days of ruling Kaluga were over in that instant. That was two days ago. Since then, he and the MVS troops had turned the government complex in the center of the bustling capital into a fortress, which it practically already was. The high, red stone walls and foreboding guard towers that surrounded the complex of government buildings mimicked the Kremlins of old. The most ubiquitous structure was the Kalugan "White House," which housed the offices of the president and the parliamentary chambers. The large, boxy structure dominated the local landscape, rising twenty stories above the squares below. Behind it stood two other buildings, housing the president's cabinet of ministers and other governmental offices. On a normal day the massive, paved courtyard between the buildings would be bustling with disgruntled politicians or curious reporters. Today, however, the massive swath of pavement among the white government buildings was teeming with military troops and armored vehicles. The MVS soldiers in their blue uniforms and riot gear had every entrance to the government complex blocked. Beyond the walls, MVS troops in APCs patrolled the road that encircled the Kremlin and the side streets leading to the complex were blockaded by tanks. However, the Gazat Bridge, which had seen human carnage two weeks ago, was surprisingly empty from fortifications. It was to be the stage for the main event.

When ousted President Yubakov decided to cling to power, the regular military of Kaluga sided with the citizens they were sworn to protect. The park which two weeks ago served as the starting point of the deadly protests now was a staging ground for tanks of the Kalugan Army. Protesters still flooded the park. But instead of angry chants they were singing and cheering. The crowd's joy drowned out the diesel engines of the military vehicles preparing for action. The recent heroes of Kaluga's election crisis were there rallying the citizens. President Viktor Belanovich, wearing a fur hat and wool trench coat struggled to scale a nearby T-72. A Kalugan soldier patted him on the shoulder which a smile and handed him a megaphone.

"Citizens of Kaluga! Soldiers of our glorious military!" he boomed through the speaker. "I am before you today as a testament to what you can do in the face of oppression and tyranny!"

A raucous cheer burst from the crowd. Once it subsided, Belanovich continued.

"You have elected me as your leader. I will not fail you. Those in your government who are standing by my side—some here today—will not fail you. These clouds that are hanging over our heads today are nothing compared to the clouds of terror and dictatorship gathering over the whole country!"

Another long bout of cheering and applause erupted from the crowd.

"Unfortunately, there is no sign of our previous president releasing his iron grip from the throat of freedom. I have been consulting with the generals of this great nation's army. The only way to take back our country is to take it back by force. We have been given no choice. May god be with us, and with Mr. Yubakov."

With that, Belanovich returned the loudspeaker and scrambled down off the tank. Amid cheers, he joined his bodyguards and other parliamentary members who had joined the gathering. The group of politicians faded into the crowd as soldiers readied their fighting vehicles, ushering citizens off the turrets and away from their paths. The tanks, APCs and other vehicles steadily made their way out of the park and on to the long boulevard leading to the government complex.

Stanimir Yubakov stood in his dark office in the White House, staring out the windows across the river into the city below. The snowfall had steadily been getting heavier since that morning. The power to the building had been cut earlier in the day and the cold had already crept in from outside. Yubakov, his closest aides and a few dozen of his last remaining allies in the parliament were all that were left of the shattered government. A knock at his door startled him. An MVS soldier shone a flashlight into the office. Yubakov shielded his eyes.

"What is it?"

"It's not going to be safe any longer," the soldier replied. "The army is moving against us. We need to get you to a safe place."

Yubakov looked out the window once more. Even though the snow obscured his view he could make out a procession of military vehicles beginning to drive onto the long Gazat Bridge. He turned to the soldier with a look of helplessness.

"The noose is tightening," Yubakov said. He adjusted his tie and joined the soldier as they made their way to the lower floors.

Four T-72s of the Kalugan Army rolled to a stop on the long bridge crossing over the Karel River. Behind them, two ZSU-23 self propelled anti-aircraft guns stood ready to repel any attacks from the air. The bridge was empty save for these six vehicles. In a nearby square, APCs loaded with troops stood ready to charge across the bridge and seize the government buildings. But Plan A was to force the people in the government complex to surrender.

The T-72s and ZSU-23s turned their guns toward the White House, waiting for the signal. It was all quiet for an instance. The gentle rumble of the diesel engines, the sloshing ice in the river below and the swirling wind joined together to create a symphonic mix. Fat snowflakes floated through the air, coming to rest on the cool steel bodies of the tanks. The crews began to get restless. It seemed like an eternity. Inside the crew compartments sweat rolled off of the soldiers' foreheads. They sat there, staring out their viewfinders at the white monolith before them. Waiting. Watching. Listening. Finally, a crackling voice appeared on the radio headsets.

"This is General Osipovich. Aim for the top floors, fire on my mark… Three… Two… One… Fire."

With a blast from the lead tank's gun, the silence was shattered. The shell impacted the White House on the side facing the main square. Smoke and fire billowed out of the gaping hole in the façade. The other tanks followed suit and launched their own deadly projectiles into the building. After a chaotic few moments the fire stopped. The building's white face was marred by several gashes and black smoke began staining the walls with soot. Suddenly a few short flashes were seen from the lower floors of the White House. Return fire. The MVS troops had a machine gun emplacement in one of the lower offices.

After some quick radio transmissions the tanks were denied permission to fire. Machine gun suppression would go to the anti-aircraft guns. The ZSU-23s moved farther down the bridge and leveled their guns at the source of the machine gun fire. The ZSU-23 Shilka was a terrifying weapon in this case. Each Shilka had four 23mm cannons with which it would normally use to shoot down aircraft. But now it was being used against troops. The Shilkas opened fire on the building, sending hundreds of rounds within a few short seconds. A loud buzzing could only be heard as the eight autocannons unleashed their wrath. Concrete and glass chipped away like plaster under the hellish assault. The Shilkas turned their turrets and raked gunfire across the sides of the White House, to the front then back to the side near the machine gun nest. Seconds later the fire ceased. Even from the bridge hundreds of feet away, massive bullet holes and scars could be seen in the White House's façade. The fires on the upper floors had spread and intensified. No return fire could be seen. It was time.

The whole building shook and shuddered as the government officials struggled to flee. Stanimir Yubakov and his aide, Mikhail Yanayev, were the last politicians to leave the building. As they ran out a side door of the government complex a ripping noise caught their attention. Bullets from Kalugan machine guns chewed into the walls above their heads, sending concrete, dust and glass tumbling downward. An MVS soldier grabbed the men by their collars and shoved them back indoors just in time.

"Those bastards!" shouted the soldier. "Take the other route, out the back lobby!"

The president and his aide turned and ran back down the hallway. The narrow passageways were cluttered with MVS troops readying themselves for a fight or scrambling up stairwells with fire extinguishers.

"_What's the use?_" Yubakov thought. "_We're leaving. There's nothing to defend here in the building."_

He heard another burst of gunfire rake the exterior of the building as he and Yanayev rounded the corner to the rear lobby. Out the glass doors they could see a hurricane of snow and dust blowing about in the courtyard. Two helicopters loaded with politicians were ready to flee the ensuing carnage, save for their final passengers. Yubakov and Yanayev ran into the courtyard, fighting the cyclones caused by the choppers' rotors. With help from MVS soldiers the two men climbed into the Mi-8 Hip with the rest of the loyal politicians.

The column of T-72s pushed across the bridge, leading the troop-laden APCs in the siege. As they approached the main square it seemed like the MVS troops were pulling back. The black BMPs that once made up the road blocks had retreated to the main gates of the Kremlin. As they came into view, none of the MVS troops opened fire on the advancing Kalugan force. Just as the first T-72 rolled into the main square, two lumbering objects lifted into the sky. Two helicopters rose above the smoking White House and turned northward. The Mi-24 gunship ignored the inviting line of T-72s and lightly armored APCs. Had he decided to engage, it would have been a bloodbath. But the choppers seemed to have a more important task at hand. As the pair of helicopters faded into the grey, snowy distance, the T-72s and APCs continued on with their push into the square. In a few short minutes the tanks surrounded the government complex. MVS troops put up a surprisingly light resistance, suffering few casualties. Kalugan Army forces had the government complex under their control within the hour. The MVS troops were arrested and taken to a nearby military base. By nightfall the fires had been extinguished and the scarred, blackened face of the White House would become a monument to the Kalugan Revolution.

The Mi-8 helicopter sped away from the capital, closely followed by its escort, a heavily armed Mi-24. The snow that was falling at a slow rate in the courtyard of the government complex now seemed to be a blizzard to the pilots cutting through the grey sky. In the crew compartment of the Hip, now ousted president Stanimir Yubakov sat sulking in a massive parka that seemed to swallow him. The dozen or so aides to Yubakov that managed to escape the siege as well surrounded him looking similarly dejected. Their country had turned against them. Now the only place they could find refuge was in the sole ally they had left: Yuktobania. It was nearly a thousand kilometers to the northern border from their position over the bay outside of Karelia. They would never make it in this chopper and especially with this weather. Yubakov's top handler and closest confidant, Mikhail Yanayev had ordered the pilots to fly northwest. The destination wasn't exactly clear but Yubakov and the others in the party felt safer the farther away from the capital they got.

Yanayev had been Yubakov's partner in politics from day one. Even though he was Yuktobanian by lineage he was born in Kaluga. This proved to be bothersome in the political climate of the last year or two. Anti-Yuke sentiments had grown immensely since Yubakov had taken power and now the political insider by his side had become a liability. However the advice and support he gave Yubakov was invaluable. And even now Yanayev had come to Yubakov's rescue once again. Yubakov was an older gentleman of small stature with silver hair. He was subdued yet passionate about a great many things. Yanayev, on the other hand was a bear of a man, standing a head taller than his commander in chief. He was younger and muscular and possessed a full head of thick, black hair. His mouth got him into trouble often. He never attempted to hide his opinions about the opposition parties from his president. Yubakov never disagreed, but he was able to articulate the venomous diatribes from his aide into more genial language. Even now Yanayev was standing at the door to the cockpit yelling obscenities at the poor pilots navigating them through the snow. Ignoring the burly man behind them was almost as challenging as seeing past the fogging windows into the grey nothingness beyond. After a few words from the radio operator Yanayev took a seat next to the president to inform him of their destination.

"We're heading northwest now," he yelled over the noise of the engines. "We're going to land at a small civilian airfield just across the bay. There we're going to refuel and head north to another base farther up the coast to refuel again. From there, we fly over the ocean, north to Yuktobania."

Yubakov nodded in agreement. "What about any hostile actions against us? The people wanted us dead back in Karelia. What about in the rest of the country?"

"We don't expect the rest of the country to know this has taken place. Power was out in the capital when we left so the news stations must be down as well. They don't know we've escaped. Besides, we won't be hitting any major airfields. The only thing we'll have to worry about is our own air defense fighters looking for us on the last leg of the journey. But I have that covered."

"What do you mean?" Yubakov yelled back into Yanayev's ear.

"The radio operator sent a message to a Yuktobanian surveillance ship not too far away. He asked if there was anything they could do to help us. They replied back that they were sending for air defense fighters." He grabbed the collar of Yubakov's jacket and shook him with excitement. "They are sending fighters to escort us into Yuktobania!"

A smile broke out on Yubakov's face. "Where are they meeting us?"

"We should rendezvous with them somewhere over the sea. They're going to be protecting us. It'll be a long flight. We should reach Yuktobania by midnight."

The helicopters continued on their way through the growing darkness only meters apart. Once they hit the mainland again they would spread out and turn off their navigation lights so as to not be seen by any "freedom fighters" that happen to be in possession of any surface to air missiles. It was going to be a tense ride. But in a few hours they would all be safe and sound.

The loaded Hip and its armed escort had lifted off from their last stop only thirty minutes ago and were now over the sea. Supposedly, that is. It was nearly midnight and the snow was falling faster than ever before. The choppers had turned their navigation lights back on for this leg of the journey to avoid colliding but the pilots could barely see the other chopper through the blizzard. And with no one in the water below, it was a safe choice.

Yubakov had dozed off in the back of the cabin, still wrapped in the monstrous overcoat. Yanayev, on the other hand, paced the aisle, dodging the feet of exhausted politicians just waiting for a notification that their escorts had arrived. On what must have been his hundredth pass by the radio operator he finally got the signal.

"News?"

"Yes. I'm in contact with two MiG-29s from the Yuktobanian 112th Interceptor Aviation Regiment. They should be right in front of us. They say they see us on radar now."

"Have they reported seeing any hostile craft?"

"They haven't seen anything out there. I doubt anyone is crazy enough to launch in this weather. Nevertheless, we're home free."

The two men broke out in big grins. Yanayev returned to the back of the cabin and woke the soon-to-be-exiled president. "Stanimir, we've got escorts."

"Excellent," said a groggy Yubakov as he removed his glasses to rub his eyes. "They see us?"

"Yes, they do…"

Suddenly the helicopter lurched to the side, throwing the passengers around the cabin. Stanimir and Mikhail fell back against the side of the craft and struggled to gain their composure. An orange flash outside the starboard portholes announced the cause of the violent maneuver. The passengers clamored to look out the windows. The Mi-24 that had been diligently shadowing them the whole way was falling into the darkness below, trailing flames and smoke. The cockpit of the Hip erupted in a flurry of activity. The pilot threw the chopper into another evasive maneuver and the radio operator frantically called for the MiGs.

"Cease fire! Do you copy? We're a friendly craft! We're a friendly! Cease fire!"

Alarms rang in the cockpit—a missile launch. The pilots cursed and turned the chopper once more, launching countermeasures.

"Yuke MiGs, do you copy? WE ARE FRIENDLIES!"

Yubakov, Yanayev and the rest of the politicians in the helicopter were silent, save for a few grunts from the strain of resisting the G-forces of the maneuvers. However, in all the maneuvering the Hip was in a perfect position for Yanayev and Yubakov to see their new escorts. Out the nearest starboard porthole they could see two growing, yellow flares screaming through the dense snow fall. Both missiles hit the Mi-8 dead center, ripping open the passenger compartment. The helicopter disintegrated and fell into the dark, watery abyss.


	3. Chapter 2  Meet the New Gals

**Chapter 2 – Meet the New Gals**

May 2, 1986 – The airspace above Laconda Air Force Base, central Kaluga

"My god," exclaimed the squadron commander over the radio. "This thing flies like a dream."

"Precisely, Colonel Boranyev," replied the training instructor from the back seat of the squadron commander's Flanker. His thick Erusean accent was difficult to understand but that only made the pilots learning to fly the new jets pay closer attention. "As I said in my briefing, the Sukhoi 27 is the top fighter on the market today. The Osean F-15 cannot hold a candle to it."

"You sure about that?" called another trainee over the radio.

"Captain Kazakov, shut your trap," Boranyev shot back. "The Eruseans were gracious enough to sell us these machines. The least you can do is be appreciative."

"Sorry Colonel," replied the hotshot captain. He knew that any further protest would be unwise. He directed his attention to the controls of the Su-27 he was flying. The Colonel was right about one thing—this bird was a joy to fly.

The pilots of this unit had been assigned to the MiG-23 for over a decade. Kazakov and some of the other young pilots had only been behind the sticks of the Floggers long enough to hate them—which didn't take long. They were fast and could run down a lot of threats. But the weak fire control radar had problems picking out low flying targets. And the damn thing couldn't stand up to a MiG-29 or MiG-21 in a dogfight. The worst part was how hard to control they were—especially on landing. The high landing speed of the MiG-23 caused a problem for pilots not used to such high speeds. Judging the correct speed and altitude to start the landing flare had to be done precisely, or else pilots would cause the MiG-23 to "bounce" on landing. The overly springy landing gear exacerbated this problem. When the MiG bounced on landing an inexperienced pilot would push the nose forward, slamming the gear onto the runway and causing it to bounce even higher. After a few deadly bounces the tail began to drag and the plane stalled. Usually it turned over on one wing and exploded, killing the pilot. Several unprepared Kalugan pilots died on landing back when they had just received the MiG-23. But the Su-27 had no such problems. Captain Anton Nikolayevich Kazakov and eleven other pilots were chosen to fly the newest fighter in the Kalugan Air Force.

Kaluga had secured one dozen Su-27s from Erusea, one of the first exporters of the new war machine. Erusea was introducing it into their air force in massive numbers. Orders were pouring in from all over the world. The factory in Farbanti couldn't keep up with the demand and as a consequence, most of the Flankers that rolled off the assembly line skipped getting a paint job and went straight onto the container ships to the buyers. So was the case with Kaluga's dozen. The silvery patchwork of metal panels covering the backs of the massive fighters made them look like an aluminum quilt. When the fighters banked at just the right angle the skin caught the sun and turned an almost luminous golden color. Kazakov loved it. Even at Laconda when the Su-27s rolled off the transport plane disassembled, they looked blisteringly fast.

The other ten Flankers were still in transit on a container ship but the two that had arrived at the airbase yesterday were the ones Kazakov and his commander were flying now. They were two-seater Su-27UBs and doubled as trainer aircraft and as airborne control aircraft for the other single-seat Flankers. But right now Kazakov and Boranyev were in the front seats being taught the ins and outs of the fighter by two very competent and knowledgeable Erusean pilots. Kazakov and Boranyev followed their instructors' every command and guided their new toys through a series of maneuvers to get used to the controls.

"That should do it for the basic introduction," called Kazakov's trainer over the radio after an hour that only seemed like a few short minutes to the Kalugans. "Let's set them down and prepare them for the next pair of pilots."

Kazakov and Boranyev pointed their planes back to the massive base complex and began their landing roll.

Anton Kazakov climbed down the crew ladder from his Flanker and removed his helmet, revealing his disheveled, sweat soaked brown hair. Kazakov jogged over to a line of waiting pilots and was surrounded by comrades eager to know what the new fighters were like. All he could manage was a massive grin.

"Wipe that shit eating grin off your face, Kaz, and tell us what it was like!" Captain Luchenko shook Kazakov by the shoulders, trying to jolt out some words.

Kazakov took a deep breath and shook his head. He wiped the sweat dripping from his hair and looked at his fellow pilots. They were eager for an answer.

"I… There's… It was awesome!"

The group of pilots burst into joyous laughter. Kazakov broke away from the group and headed for the debriefing room, still grinning.

"Alright," boomed Colonel Boranyev. "Luchenko, Volkov, you two are next. The ground crews are going to refuel the planes and the Eruseans are going to go over some pre-flight stuff with you." He couldn't hold it back any longer. A wide grin spread over the Colonel's old face. "God damn… you boys are gonna have a lot of fun!"

May 2, 1986 – Laconda AB crew lounge

There was a buzz about the airbase. It was focused on the new fighters—"the new gals." Every pilot on base had gone by the alert pad where the Flankers were sitting at least once just to see them. The dozen pilots selected to fly the new planes were dubbed "chosen ones" by the jealous MiG-21 crews. Even as a vein of envy ran through the base, it was all in good faith. The personnel felt a sense of security now that they had another advanced fighter in the air force inventory. The MiG-29 squadrons Kaluga had purchased a couple of years ago were only tasked for defense around the capital. These Sukhois being based at Laconda would provide valuable air defense throughout northern and eastern Kaluga. And the whole country felt it was going to be needed sooner or later.

Anton Kazakov had been reeling from his flight earlier that day. He wore his smile the rest of the day and only now was it wearing off. After dinner he swaggered down the hall to the crew lounge to relax. Inside the lounge some of his fellow pilots were doing the same. Some first lieutenants were crowded around the room's small television set watching news reports of the latest political dealings in Karelia. Things had begun to look up since January. Kazakov was cautiously optimistic that the new president would take the country in different direction from his predecessor. Either way, he was along for the ride. Kazakov flopped down on the couch against the back wall and picked up a copy of "Frontline." He flipped through the magazine to an article about the Sukhoi 27. In addition to the flight manuals and literature sent by the Eruseans, he had read this article over and over and over in the days before the delivery. Everything the article said about the Flanker's performance was generally true, if a little bit embellished. But that was journalism. After actually getting behind the stick, reading the article again gave Kazakov piece of mind in his new plane.

"Why don't you work, you damned thing?" a voice in the corner mumbled.

Kazakov tossed the magazine on the couch and walked over to the disgruntled pilot. The cursing pilot was hunched over a massive bank of electronics and antennas. "Hey there Volkov," he yelled as he slammed his hands down on the man's shoulders.

Volkov spun around, startled. "Geez Kaz, don't do that."

"Sorry," he replied with a devilish grin. "Are you messing with this pile of junk again?"

"It's not junk," Volkov said, appearing hurt. "It's a short wave radio. How many times do I have to tell you? I can pick up radio transmissions for hundreds of kilometers."

Volkov spun the dial on the receiver. As the needle raced along the frequency listing the static changed to garbled voices and barely audible music.

"I thought the Colonel chewed you out for having this."

"Well, that was mostly just because he was worried about the transmitter. I've sold that off. So now all we can do is receive transmissions."

"Of what? I almost heard music and I thought I could hear voices. I don't know how you understand any of it."

"It takes fine tuning!" Volkov seemed insulted again. "I can get music down the coast into Romny, over to Karelia and into the mountains. I even pick up those propaganda filled Radio Free Verusa broadcasts that come in from the sea." Volkov scowled.

"Wait a minute. You know we were getting more truth about the election from RFV than we were any state run station here."

Volkov began a retort but caught himself. Since the revolutionaries ousted Yubakov the military had been keeping a close watch on dissent among the ranks. It was one thing for a disgruntled infantryman to express opinions that hearkened back to the so-called Yuke puppet government. It was another for a pilot training in one of the most elite squadrons to express the same feelings. Nevertheless, Volkov had been sickened by the turn of events over the past months. The disappearance of the ousted president didn't ease his frustrations. Wreckage from Yubakov's chopper washed up along the northern coast of Kaluga a day or so after he was forced to flee Karelia. Volkov wouldn't have been shocked if Kalugan planes had been ordered to shoot down the chopper.

Like most Kalugans raised in the northern section of the country, Stepan Volkov was born to Kalugan and Yuktobanian parents. His upbringing conditioned him to be skeptical of the politicians and government officials in the Kalugan capital. His portion of the country was almost all agricultural and quite rural, save for a larger town here and there. In addition to the region's isolation, the historic ethnic-Yuktobanian majority made the area a target for "pure" Kalugans. Volkov hated the division. He was raised tolerant of other cultures and fancied himself as a good blend of both Yuke and Kalugan. Now that Belanovich launched his coup based on fixed ballots, Volkov knew that the hatred of ethnic Yuktobanians in Kaluga would be even worse.

The impromptu political debate was at once interrupted by a jolly voice.

"Hello boys!" Captain Feodor Luchenko walked into the lounge with his arms outstretched. The junior officers in the corner didn't turn away from their television. Luchenko's arms fell to his side as he walked over to Kazakov and Volkov at the radio. "Well, at least you two are happy to see me!"

"Maybe," replied Kazakov. "I think I've almost gotten Volk here onto another one of his political tirades."

"Bah!" Volkov waved his hand. "I could go on and on, but I don't want to be strung up by my toes. So, Fedya, how was the flying today?"

"Oh, Stepan, about the same as everyone else's," Luchenko replied mundanely. He had an annoying habit of underestimating his excitement of things. He always seemed cool and calm. He was rarely excitable. After his momentary lapse of composure on the tarmac and in the cockpit, the newness of the planes seemed to wear off for him.

"I wish you'd show emotion sometimes," laughed Kazakov. "You know damn well everyone practically had to change their pants when they got out of the Flankers!"

Luchenko smiled and shot Kazakov a wink. "Volkov, are you still messing with your stupid radio?"

"It's not stupid," Volkov said with a sigh. "You wouldn't believe what you can find on these. Besides radio stations and propaganda broadcasts—"

Kazakov snorted and rolled his eyes.

"As I was saying… Besides normal radio things, I've been picking up these weird transmissions. I think they're coming from the mountains over in Yuktobania."

"What's so weird about them?" Luchenko asked.

"Let me show you."

Volkov turned the dial and navigated through the static until a short buzzing tone was all that could be heard. A short, monotonous buzzing tone repeated itself once every second or so. Kazakov and Luchenko listened intently for a short while.

"That's it?" Kazakov asked, unimpressed.

"Not quite," replied Volkov. "What you're hearing is the normal transmission. It's a buzzing sound that lasts for 0.8 seconds, pausing for 1.2 seconds and then repeats. On the minute before every hour it's replaced by a continuous tone."

"Okay," Luchenko said. "But what does it do?"

"It's what people call a 'numbers station.' At random times it broadcasts the same Morse code message—UVB-77. That is then followed by alphanumeric messages." Luchenko opened his mouth to ask something but Volkov held up a finger, stopping him. "I've been monitoring it for months now. It's picked up in activity since the election fraud. I've recorded a lot of them."

Volkov turned the volume on the radio down and pressed play on a tape recorder. A recording of the station's buzzing tone started but was then interrupted by a series of beeps. Volkov picked up a note pad and read it aloud as the recorder played.

"_UVB-77, UVB-77, 93 825 IMANNIA 278 114—9 3 8 2 5 Ivan, Mikhail, Anna, Nikolai, Nikolai, Ivan, Anna, 2 7 8 1 1 4._"

Volkov stopped the recorder and looked up at the incredulous pilots with a satisfied smile on his face. Kazakov and Luchenko looked at one another for answers to what they had just heard then turned to Volkov.

"What in God's name was that?"

Volkov, with his smile replied, "I have no clue."

The two pilots groaned with discontent.

"Volkov I hope that intel knows you're messing with this," Luchenko says as he and Kazakov walked away to find some other source of entertainment. "It could get you into trouble. And that's something you certainly don't need."

"Trust me, they know. And I'm working on finding out what it means before they do!" Volkov called after the fleeing duo. "I'm meeting a guy in town this week to… ask him some questions… Ah, forget it."

Volkov turned around, shrugging off the disinterest. He began fiddling with the radio again, this time trying to pick up some rock music.

"This should at least bring a little more excitement to the lounge," he muttered to himself, glancing over at the lieutenants fixated on the television. "At least it'll get them away from the liars on the TV."

Luchenko and Kazakov exited the lounge and turned down the hallway. It had been a long day and now they were heading for their barracks to rest. The breeze was cool and crisp, with the last bits of spring being carried away. Soon the summer air would become hot and moist. Kazakov hated the humidity of the Kalugan summers. Luchenko didn't mind it. He always seemed content no matter how miserable the conditions were. Luchenko was one of Kazakov's first friends he made in the air force. Kazakov was a hothead to begin with. Luchenko teased him and said he suffered from little man's syndrome, as Luchenko was several inches taller than Kazakov. The little ball of fire and the massive glacier—they were complete opposites, but somehow they worked well together. Kazakov initially couldn't stand how calm Luchenko was about everything. Even when Luchenko suffered a flame out in his single engine Flogger his radio transmissions sounded like he was reading from a boring script. Kazakov told him that he would have been freaking out had it happened to him. Fedya replied as predicted:

"It wasn't really worth getting excited over. I knew the outcome was going to be my recovery or my death. When you know what's going to happen there's not much of a surprise."

After taking those candid words of wisdom to heart, Kazakov calmed down. The two became great friends and worked very well together in the air. As Flogger pilots they were able to excel in training exercises. Now with an advanced fighter strapped to them, Kazakov hoped they would be even more effective. As the pair strolled down the walkway between administrative buildings, they caught a large figure moving in the shadows near their barracks. Getting closer, they saw that it was Colonel Boranyev.

"Hey there Colonel," greeted Luchenko.

"Luchenko, Kazakov," he nodded in reply as he glanced up from the clipboard he was engrossed in. "I want you two to study everything you can about these Flankers. I know you've had your noses in the books so far, but now that we're in actual flight training I want you to know how to use these things in your sleep."

"No worries there, Colonel," Kazakov replied.

"Once you boys get your hours you'll be on air patrols and quick reaction alert. The Yukes are putting pressure on us. I think it's only a matter of time before they start doing recon."

The pilots nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. The farther away Kaluga slipped from the Yuktobanians' grip, the harder the Yukes would fight to retain control. And that meant recon flight incursions—at the very least.

"The container ship with the rest of our twenty sevens should arrive in the next few days," Boranyev continued. "I'm going to have you two load up on flight hours in the mean time so you can help me and the Eruseans ferry them from Karelia to this base."

The pilots each broke out into a grin. Boranyev flipped through his clipboard and continued.

"For now, get some rest. I've got paperwork to do."

The Colonel sped past the pilots and headed for one of the administration buildings on base. Kazakov and Luchenko, still smiling, shared a high five and continued to their bunks.


	4. Chapter 3  The Intercept

**Chapter 3 - The Intercept  
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August 20th, 1986 – Laconda Airbase

"Specter Flight, prepare to scramble!"

The call from the control tower startled Kazakov, who was up until that point dozing in his cockpit. He and Luchenko, his flight lead had been on quick reaction alert for nearly the past two hours. Boredom usually took hold after the first 15 minutes. As luck would have it, the bogies waited until the last 15 minutes of the shift to enter Kalugan airspace. The ground crew began preparing the duo of brand new Su-27s for takeoff.

"Specter 2-6, you ready for this one?" Luchenko called over the radio.

"Roger that, Specter 2-5."

The past few months had been tense among the Kalugan armed forces. Yuktobania had been putting pressure on Kaluga economically, politically and militarily. Things were looking dark to the east. Kazakov and several others on base felt that it was only a matter of time until the unthinkable happened. He wanted to believe that the Yukes would leave Kaluga alone. What good was a little backwater country to the giant empire anyway? But deep down, he knew they were going to try everything to keep Kaluga in the sphere of influence. Ever since Kazakov and the rest of the Chosen Ones at Laconda had been cleared by their instructors to operate the Su-27s they had been on the front lines and had seen everything the Yukes were throwing at them.

The pilots began bringing their interceptors' systems online and after a few hectic minutes of flipping switches and pressing buttons the two Flankers began taxiing to the nearby runway. Another check of a few final systems and the planes were ready. As they brought their throttles to full power, the pilots could feel the building vibrations from the massive engines.

Specter 2-6 saw his flight lead give a thumbs up as a ready signal. 2-6 nodded and gave a thumbs up as well.

"Specter Flight, ready for takeoff," Luchenko called over the headset.

"Specter Flight, you are cleared for takeoff," came the reply from the tower.

With that, the brakes on the planes were released and the two steel birds raced to the end of the concrete ribbon. They leapt from the ground and began climbing into the endless expanse of empty sky. Luchenko began contacting ground control for direction.

"GCI-Dimitr, this is QRA Unit 2, callsign 'Specter,' requesting vector and distance to target."

"Specter Flight, this is GCI-Dimitr. Bogey detected at vector 8-5, at 8,000 meters, heading 2-0-9 at 500 kilometers per hour. You are cleared to approach and intercept. Weapons hold until further notice."

"Roger that."

The planes turned east and accelerated to catch the intruders.

"Specter Flight, this is GCI-Dimitr. You should be coming up on the bogies shortly. Recommend you switch your radars to search mode."

The pilots complied and began searching for the intruders. It only took the massive Zhuk radar in the nose of the Flankers a few seconds to detect a target.

"Contact, one bogey, range 100 kilometers," called Luchenko. "Looks like another recon plane."

Each of the four times Kazakov and Luchenko had launched for QRA duty it had been against a big reconnaissance plane. He had seen one A-50 AWACS and a flight of two Tu-22Rs. Both times, the planes were escorted out of Kaluga's airspace. The other two times he launched, the planes outran him before they could be intercepted. He assumed they were MiG-25RBs. What else could the Yukes have that could fly at 18,000 meters and nearly mach 3?

A green blob on the radar screen in the pilots' cockpits pulsed with each pass of the antenna. A blinking red light took Kazakov's attention away from the radar screen. It was his radar warning receiver.

"2-5, I'm being spiked. Did you get one too?"

"Affirmative. Looks like another A-50. Let's make him turn around."

Kazakov eased his throttle forward and looked back at his radar. But the picture had changed. It wasn't a big green blob anymore. It seemed to have broken apart. He stopped the mechanical scan and set his radar to look straight ahead. The picture cleared as he approached the targets.

_Targets?_

"GCI-Dimitr, this is Specter 2-6" Kazakov called. His voice quivered. "I'm picking up multiple bogies. Same heading as before, range 70 kilometers."

"Negative, Specter Flight. We still have one target."

"I've got them too," It was Luchenko. "This is no AWACS. GCI-Dimitr, Specter Flight requesting permission for Master Arm on."

"Roger that, Specter Flight. Weapons clear—" The pilots could hear a commotion in the background at the ground control facility. "Specter Flight, bogey has now increased speed. We're also seeing the bogies separating. You were right. There are multiples. We count four bogies headed straight for you. Speed now at 650 kilometers per hour. Range 50 kilometers."

The hair on Kazakov's arms and neck stood up. His radar warning buzzed as well.

"2-6, switch radar to track mode. Let's try to scare them. Lock one up and keep him locked in case you need to shoot."

"Roger," his hands were shaking now.

A series of sharp beeps sounded in Luchenko's cockpit. He had a missile locked on him.

"Shit," he muttered through his heavy breaths. "Jinking left. 2-6, you jink right but _do not _lose me."

"Got it."

The two planes separated as flares and chaff rocketed away from the fuselages in a desperate attempt to fool the oncoming missiles.

"GCI-Dimitr, we're being fired on!" Kazakov was practically yelling into his headset. "Requesting permission to attack!"

"Permission granted. Fire at will. Jesus Christ…"

Specter 2-6 was free of a missile warning, but he was still spiked. He turned left to face his attackers and climbed as he armed his R-27 missiles. There wasn't a lock though. He scrambled through his mind to find a reason for it. Then he realized his radar was still fixed looking ahead. He swept the sky with the radar and reacquired the targets. The radar locked onto a target at 25 kilometers. A sharp buzz in his ear confirmed the lock.

"Specter 2-6, launching one. Target at 28 kilometers. Launching two." He pulled the trigger twice and two missiles fell out from under the engine nacelles on his Flanker. He watched as they accelerated into the distance. His headset was cluttered with the sounds of his own radar lock, his radar warning receiver and heavy breathing. But it wasn't his. Kazakov glanced out his cockpit in search of his flight lead. He found 2-5 much farther away and at a lower altitude ahead of him. Luchenko was diving towards Earth at full afterburner in an attempt to break the lock of the missile.

"Specter flight, bandits are still separating. There are two target groups now. One on your nose at 20 kilometers, the other is turning north and accelerating."

Kazakov didn't hear Dimitr's radio calls. He was being tortured. He was flying straight and fast, waiting for his missiles to hit. If he moved he would lose the lock and the missiles wouldn't track. If the bandit fired on him he would have to choose between guiding his missiles and saving his life. It was a surprisingly difficult choice. Kazakov began counting the time he estimated until his missiles hit, his eyes darting between his radar screen and the missile warning light.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Hit dammit!_

_Four…_

_Five…_

2-6's radar screen finally lit up—his missiles had hit.

"I got a kill! One down! One bandit down!"

"Good kill 2-6," called the flight lead. Luchenko had evaded his missile and maneuvered into level flight about five kilometers off Kazakov's port wing.

"Kill confirmed!" GCI-Dimitr yelled over the radio. "Bandit is still closing. Second group is turning back into you—heading 0-0-3, altitude 11,000 meters, range 80 kilometers, speed 1000 kilometers per hour and increasing!"

"We've got to deal with this last guy. He's not breaking off," Luchenko called. "Firing two at bandit, range 20 kilometers. 2-6, turn south and see if you can get a shot on these other guys before they can get one on us."

Two R-27s screamed away from Luchenko's plane as his wingman broke away. Kazakov accelerated and climbed to get level with the incoming bandits.

"Last bandit from the first group is turning away from us now," called 2-5. "I think I scared him off. He can't run though."

Kazakov's trembling hands worked the stick and lined up the second group on his nose. He frantically pleaded for a radar lock but they were too far away. He could hear himself breathing heavily now. A realization fell over him like a shroud. He had just faced down two Yuktobanian interceptors and had scored his first kill. A voice over the radio said something, but he was too dazed to realize who had said it and what it was. He heard the voice again and shook off the haze. It was his flight lead.

"2-6, do you have those other bandits?"

"Uh…" he struggled to regain composure. "Yes, I have them. 55 kilometers." It felt like his stomach was trying to escape through his throat. He swallowed to keep it down.

"Lock them up. I've almost got this last guy. Just a few more seconds…"

Kazakov felt like he couldn't last a few more seconds. He wanted to be back at base. Or better yet back home.

"I got him!" 2-5 yelled. "That's two bandits down. 2-6, I'm turning to assist. You're way out in front. You're going to have a shot before I do. Just stay cool."

_Jesus Christ… _Kazakov took a few deep breaths and focused on his radar.

_I survived one. I can survive two. _

His radar warning receiver began blinking and chirping. The enemy planes were spiking him. Another deep breath.

"Range 40 kilometers. Readying R-27s."

Suddenly a piercing sound rang out through his headset.

"_Missile warning_," said a soothing female voice.

Kazakov couldn't think. He wasn't even able to make a decision. His arms and legs just reacted. He rolled his plane into a sharp dive to the right and punched the throttle to full afterburner. The g-forces slammed him into his ejection seat. He launched flares to try and fool the missile but it closed fast.

"_Missile warning."_

_Another one?_

He pulled his plane left again, trying to get inside the missile's turn and keep it in his sight. His earphones were ringing with what seemed like dozens of voices, alarms and buzzes.

"Damn it, I can't see it!" He was panicking.

"_Missile warning_."

Kazakov pulled the stick into his gut and tensed the muscles in his lower body to keep from blacking out. Then everything went quiet.

_It worked!_

He shook the first missile off and the second failed to track. 2-6 took another deep breath as he choked back tears.

"Bandits have closed on you fast," called ground control. "They should be inside of 18 kilometers now."

"I've got them," 2-5 called. "2-6, I'm headed your way. We're going to get these bastards in a vice! When they close on you, do what you can to avoid any head-on shots and try and get behind them."

Kazakov reoriented himself one more time. His eyes darted from the horizon beyond his HUD to his radar screen, desperately searching for the planes. Two small black dots caught his eye. They kept growing and growing as he sped towards them in a high speed joust.

_Avoid head on shots... _The advice was obvious but extraordinarily difficult to say the least.

"2-5, this is 2-6. I have tally. Switching to short range missiles." Panic was in his voice.

He could make out the enemy planes now. They were big boxy things with stubby wings and gaping engine intakes. MiG-25s—painted a color similar to coal with large red Yuke roundels on the wings. They were approaching him at well past the speed of sound. He didn't even have time to launch a missile. The MiGs zoomed by.

_They didn't fire… They aren't armed with short range weapons._

Kazakov gasped in relief, popped his air brake and yanked the plane into a hard turn. He rolled out of his turn and dropped his nose to get a shot on the MiGs. He was in perfect shooting position.

"2-6, you got em?"

"Roger, 2-5. We've got them in a squeeze. They're MiG-25s and I don't think they're carrying heaters! If they don't outrun us we've got them!"

A growling tone filled his headset. He pulled the trigger and an R-60 jumped off the rails straight for the inviting plume of hot gasses coming out of the MiG's giant engines. The missile fought to keep up with the screaming Foxbats but it quickly gained its stride. Ignoring the defensive flares, it slammed into the rear end of the trailing MiG and the monstrous plane slowly began falling to earth. His partner drifted left in a wide high speed turn. Flares jumped away from the MiG like sparks from a forge.

2-6 could see his wingman now. He fired his own missile but it was fooled by the flares. The Yuktobanian interceptor rocketed up into the sky and faded into the hazy distance.

It all seemed quiet. The whine of the Flanker's engines could still be heard, as could his own breathing. But there were no warnings. No bells. No tones. No buzzes. Just a quiet hum and his short, heavy breaths.

A voice interrupted the tranquility. "2-6, this is 2-5." He was out of breath too. "Form up. GCI-Dimitr, where's that other one heading?"

"Specter Flight, he's headed for the border. Speed is at mach 1.9 and increasing. You won't catch him."

"No problem there," Luchenko said. His wingman was silent.

The two planes eased into formation with one another and turned towards home.

The flight back was near silent once the pilots caught their breath. Both seemed to be zombies, operating their planes with no thought or conscious decisions. Neither had seen real combat before today. But soon they would arrive back at base to a crowd of pilots and ground crew ready to shower them with blessings and admiration because of their collective three kills. MiG-25 silhouettes would be painted on the noses of their planes and the chalk board with the QRA assignments would have X's put beside their names. Captains Feodor Luchenko and Anton Kazakov were the first real fighter pilots of their squadron. They weren't sure how much they would enjoy the warm reception. But they would accept it. It would be more than just a celebration of a combat victory. To them, it was a celebration of their safe return.

* * *

><p>Volkov was going to miss the festivities at the base. He had left earlier in the day on leave to travel into Dimitr for, as he told his superiors, more radio parts. However, that was only part of the reason. He had met a strange fellow calling himself "Ivan" a few months ago during one of his routine visits into the city. Ivan was a radio parts broker in the city and supposedly knew a thing or two about the numbers station Volkov had found. And after a few visits and friendly conversations, Volkov discovered that Ivan held the same political views as he did. He hated the way President Belanovich took over the government and ousted Yubakov. Firing on fellow military troops was unthinkable. Ivan told Volkov that he was almost certain that Belanovich had Kalugan fighters or ships shoot the chopper down. The pair Ivan shared all of these feelings as openly as they could. Volkov had found someone sympathetic.<p>

"There are a lot of people that feel like you do," Ivan told him. "But there are options."

He never expounded on that and it left Volkov puzzled. Ivan was often cryptic but it never bothered Volkov. The radio knowledge Ivan possessed and the familiar political positions made for a great acquaintance. And in a society where it was all but forbidden to speak out against the government it was good to be able to vent. Now Volkov was on his way to Ivan's shop for a meeting. Ivan had told him that there were some other like minded Kalugans that would be interested in discussing politics. Volkov was rather excited, but Ivan had been cryptic again and told him to not tell anyone the purpose of his visit. Volkov shrugged it off as cautiousness and went along.

He rounded the street corner and began strolling down the narrow street on which Ivan's shop was situated. It was a rather run down part of Dimitr, an industrial town since its founding. The soft wind blowing through the city smelled of smelted iron and engine exhaust. The cool breeze cut right through his thin track suit. Volkov stumbled over a pothole in the cracked and rutted asphalt. He regained his footing and continued on. None of the buildings looked very nice. In the fading light of day they seemed to have a layer of soot on their façades, shrouding the otherwise beautiful pre-1920s architecture. Volkov finally arrived at Ivan's store. The lights were out and a hand written sign hung in the door.

_Meeting is upstairs. _

Volkov pushed on the door and entered the shop. The bell rang as he stepped onto the wooden floor. The shop looked eerie without lights. The narrow street was already dark from the obscuring buildings and the dingy windows let in only a portion of the fading light from outside. Volkov felt his way around the main counter display, carefully avoiding the radio parts he didn't want to pay for if he broke. Suddenly a light appeared at the back of the shop, temporarily blinding Volkov.

"Who is it?" called a voice from upstairs.

"It's Volkov. Why are the lights out?"

"Ah Volkov! Come!"

Once his eyes adjusted Volkov recognized the man as Ivan. His short, rotund stature and thick, black moustache were hard to forget. As was the grey balaclava Ivan always wore to cover his bald head. Volkov made his way to the back of the store and climbed the stairs. As he entered the room, Ivan closed and locked the door behind him. Volkov looked around the small room. There were more radio parts cluttered on work benches along the walls and there was a table in the middle. Seated at the table were eight other people. He seemed to recognize two or three of them.

"Vova? Dima? Is that you guys?"

The others looked up from the table, which was littered with papers. They all had determined looks on their faces.

"Volkov," said Ivan. "It seems you know some of these patriotic folks here. I'll save introductions for afterward. We need to get down to business because it's almost time. Have a seat."

Volkov pulled up a folding chair to the crowded table and looked at the papers strewn out before him. It looked like code ciphers.

"Gentlemen, over the last few months I've gotten to know you well," Ivan started. "I know that you all feel the same way about your government. And you all have something else in common. You are all pilots. Whether you fly MiGs or helicopters doesn't matter. You have the best chance of escaping what is about to happen."

Some of the pilots nodded in solemn agreement. Others, including Volkov, furrowed their brows in confusion. Ivan continued.

"Volkov, you have stumbled onto what I'm about to show you already. For the others, I give you your ticket out of this hell hole."

Ivan stepped aside from the work bench behind him and turned on a short wave radio. The airwaves crackled to life revealing a faint buzz tone buried under the static.

"This is your numbers station: UVB-77 broadcasting on frequency 4625. It will broadcast this series of buzzes constantly until a message is sent. A message being sent is coded. The keys for the encryption are lying in front of you. The instructions will tell you how to interpret the message." Ivan paused and looked at the group. "I trust you all. From now on I want none of you to ask any questions and follow every direction I give you to the letter."

Ivan lifted his sweater over his belt revealing a Makarov pistol stuffed in his waistband.

"If you don't comply, you won't be leaving here tonight. Is that clear?"

Each and every pilot in the room nodded in agreement. Volkov silently wondered exactly what it was that Ivan was asking them to do but he dared not ask.

"Now," Ivan continued. "The numbers station is going to broadcast a code within the next few days. This code is going to include a vector, altitude and a transponder setting. These will ensure that you won't be killed."

One of the pilots blurted out a question. "Killed? By who?"

Ivan drew the pistol and aimed it at the pilot's head. The startled pilot raised his hands in surrender. Ivan pointed the pistol at the pilot's right hand and pulled the trigger. A deafening shot echoed through the small room. The pilot clutched his bloody right hand in pain as the other men repelled from him. The small room fell silent save for the pained groans of the wounded man.

"I said no questions," Ivan said calmly as he replaced the pistol in his waistband. "By the way, you were shot in a bar fight. Now if I'm not clear enough, these transponder codes and flight settings will make the Yuktobanian fighters in the airspace ignore you so that you can fly into Yuktobania to safety. Once the code is transmitted the numbers station will stop broadcasting. So be on the lookout for it. There will be several broadcasts over the next few days but only one will have a special code prefix telling you that it is the real code. Decrypt that message."

Volkov realized the gravity of the situation. He finally had a chance to do something about his predicament. He wasn't about to be sent into battle against fellow Kalugans or his Yuktobanian allies. This was his way out. And it wasn't going to hurt anyone.

"Once the Yuktobanians begin their plans the Kalugan air force will be placed on high alert and you will most certainly be presented with patrol duty. Use this opportunity to make your break. I'm giving you a ticket to freedom. Use it. And remember. This is our little secret." Ivan patted his waist band and shot a glance to the wounded pilot, doubled over in pain, whimpering.

The pilots were instructed to leave one by one so as to not arouse suspicion. When Volkov left, night had descended on the city. He clutched the small envelope of papers in his hand, thinking about what he could do to sneak them onto the base. The long walk to the bus station and the four hour ride back to base provided the perfect opportunity for Volkov to figure out where to hide his papers and when to make his escape.


	5. Chapter 4  Numbers

**Chapter 3 - Numbers  
><strong>

_8-21-86, _

_Received the codes today. There are fewer pilots than I suspected but nine is better than none—well, eight. One won't be flying with his hand in such bad shape. I still wonder about what will happen to set this in motion. Carpet bombing isn't the ideal way to start this off. _

_Moved radio receiver into bunk for privacy and to catch this message. I want out. _

…

_8-22-86,_

_Bullshit. The new government in Karelia has issued travel restrictions for people of Yuktobanian descent and those with family out of the country. This administration is worse than Romny's. Hume is a totalitarian thug bent on power and Belanovich is his stooge. _

_Boranyev took me off Flanker team. I'm back to the MiG-21s. Good while it lasted. Can't help but think it has to do with the new restrictions. _

…

_8-24-86,_

_The government says they caught a Yuke terrorist trying to blow up a fuel station in the south. Could have taken a lot of people out had he succeeded. Ivan suggests Romnyan false flag op. I'm not discounting it. _

_Belanovich lifts travel restrictions and instead opts for more armed guards at public places and critical targets. At least he's taking his boot off of our necks. Still going to fly the MiGs. _

_Message: "34 183 0000 ZAGAT 282 937"_

_Not the one._

…

_8-26-86,_

_Belanovich continues to impress. Yuke spies caught this time. Sent them back to Yuktob. Instead of killing them. Not too bad. _

…

_8-27-86,_

_Another incursion from the Yukes. They're making it tough on the other pilots. Haven't been sent out yet myself. Flying a MiG-21 isn't as glamorous as those Flanker boys but I don't get worked as hard. Kazakov had another run in with a MiG squad. 29s this time I think he said. He came back pale andquiet. He'll be fine after some rest. _

_Painted a third kill mark on his plane. _

…

_8-28-86,_

_Message: "1192 777 URAL 128 472"_

_Not today._

…

_8-29-86,_

_Weapons shipment from Romny coming in. More Belkan FALs and AUGs, Osean Stingers. Who knows how much the govt is spending on all this. Markets in town are severely understocked and we're buying guns instead of bread. _

_Close call today. Base cmdr almost caught me writing these notes. If they see this notebook I'll no doubt be hung. He mentioned something about getting rid of the radio. Getting spare parts tomorrow to act as a decoy to dispose._

…

_8-30-86,_

_Went to Ivan's to get radio parts. Storefront is closed up and empty. Ivan not there. Cmdr wants radios gone tomorrow. I'll make do. _

_Message: "13 383 127 KOSMOS 452 888"_

_Still nothing._

…

_8-31-86,_

_Disposed of 'radio.' Hid notes and receiver in a different place. _

_Kazakov woke up screaming last night then went for a walk in just his underwear. Came back blue from cold. __GREAT__ distraction for me. Poor guy._

_Another Yuke flight. AWACS and fighters. _

…

_9-1-86,_

_Message: "77 283 111 TOPOL 128 442"_

_Not it. _

_..._

_9-2-86,_

_Belanovich met with Hume in Romny, showed solidarity for his cause of destruction. Two days ago Hume's death squads burned two villages near the Yuke border. Civil defense troops here must have an itchy trigger finger. If they weren't Kalugan I'd deal with them myself. _

_This message better come through soon. _

_More aircraft intercepts. Jammers this time. Kaz stayed here. He's doing better. _

_Message: "77 123 947 DESNA 825 551"_

_Shit._

…

_9-3-86,_

"_UVB-77, UVB-76, 11 386 10 CHERNAYA 795 989—7 6 1 1 3 8 6 Chelovek, Yelena, Roman, Nikolai, Anna, Yakov, 7 9 5 9 8 9."_

_Transmitter has gone silent. Bingo!_

_Transponder code 2227, departure time after 11 PM on Sept. 4__th__, 1986. _

_Farewell Kaluga. I loved you all my life and would do anything for you. But the Kaluga of today is not the Kaluga that raised me. Tomorrow I go to my true home. _

_-Captain Stepan Gregoriyev Volkov, _

_52__nd__ Fighter Reg., 521__st__ Squadron_

* * *

><p>There was that beep again. Kazakov's head spun looking for the source of the radar lock. His warning receiver seemed to flash on every point in its circle—they were all around him.<p>

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Red lights in his cockpit flashed and other warnings buzzed and growled. He didn't have any missiles left. His guns were empty. Kazakov frantically fought with the stick to shake off the incoming missiles. He grunted and strained as he resisted the g-forces.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

"Shut up! SHUT UP!"

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

"Goddammit I said SHUT UP!"

Kazakov punched the flare release and pulled a tight loop to the right. His plane shuddered. He glanced into his rear view mirror to find a horrifying sight. He couldn't even count the contrails. Dozens—hundreds of missiles were shrieking towards him. Kazakov firewalled the throttles and hit the flares again. The plane jolted, but not from the thrust. He wasn't moving. His plane seemed to float in the air. He looked at his fuel gauge.

_Empty_?

Panic.

Kazakov flipped every switch and turned every knob to get his plane to do SOMETHING.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

He began sobbing as his motions turned into punches against his cockpit. His plane has somehow turned to face the missiles. They had multiplied. He had only one thing left to do—eject. Kazakov reached between his knees and yanked on the eject handles. The canopy shot off and Kazakov rocketed further into the sky. The wind rushing past his head was deafening. His helmet must have been blown off by the force. He looked down and saw his Su-27 get smaller and smaller as he went higher and higher. Suddenly he was shaken by the opening parachute above him. After the chaos had subsided Kazakov turned his head toward the swarm of missiles. They were still heading for him.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

He screamed and flailed his arms. Somehow he reached his knife and began slicing at the parachute chords. The last cord was cut and Kazakov began plummeting to earth. Faster and faster.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

The missiles passed over his head and turned straight down to follow him.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Faster and faster and faster.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Closer and closer they came. He could see their seeker heads and make out the fins. The falling sensation increased all of a sudden, as if he were on a roller coaster. Then the missiles caught up with him.

Kazakov hit the floor below his bed and let out a horrified wail. He flapped about on his floor for a split second before he realized where he was. No missiles. No falling.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

That was real. After wiping the tears from his eyes and taking several long, deep breaths Kazakov got up and stumbled over to his alarm clock. He tried to control his shaking hands enough to turn off the alarm but it wasn't the source. Night still had a firm hold on the base. Kazakov shook the nightmare from his head and opened his window. The sound blasted through. It was the alert klaxon outside.

Immediately he went into soldier mode. The klaxon wouldn't go off for a normal patrol incursion that the QRA fighters could handle. This was big.

He splashed some water on his face and sped out his door to the ready room where his other pilots were waiting.

Kazakov was one of the last pilots that filed into the briefing room. He and everyone else were already suited up for a sortie. Kazakov saw Volkov in a seat on the front row. He must have gotten there early. There weren't any seats left. Every pilot on base was here. Kazakov squirmed to the back of the room where Luchenko was standing.

"You're not looking so hot," Luchenko said.

"Hello to you too. I went to bed early but that didn't last long."

"I haven't been to bed yet myself. It's only 10:00. At least you got some," Luchenko said with a smile and a slap on the back.

"I don't know about that."

Kazakov's mind went back to the nightmare he had woken up from. It was just like the others he had been having lately. The war hadn't even started and he was already cracking. He rubbed his eyes and turned his attention to the base commander who had just taken his position behind the podium.

"Good evening gentlemen," Colonel Boranyev said solemnly. "I'll cut this short. We're getting a ton of radar signatures on our northern and eastern mainland borders and on our maritime border to the west. Nothing had crossed the fence yet, but there seems to be a lot of them out there. High command is pretty sure this is the big moment."

Luchenko let out a contemplative "hmm."

"We're going to have nearly every one of you in the air at some point tonight. The first squads up are going to be our Su-27s. You'll be doing some long range target searching and culling out the false targets our GCI are picking up. The MiG-21 squads will be lifting off as well. Those pilots will be tasked with running down anything that comes over the border. GCI is getting a lot of contacts and they're having trouble discerning them all. The Flankers will be acting as target designators for the MiGs. They'll point out targets and if they cross the fence or act aggressively in any way, the MiGs will be sent in for the kill. The Flankers will be loaded with weapons as well in case things get hairy. We've devised this hunter-killer strategy as a way of bluffing the enemy so to speak. We hope it works. You all know your assignments and flight orders. Get to your planes on the double. And stay safe out there. Dismissed."

The pilots rushed out the doors and onto the tarmac. Their planes were already being prepared under floodlights. Kazakov and Luchenko were going up after the first flight of MiG-21s. Volkov hurried toward the two and extended his hand.

"Gentlemen, you two have been great friends."

"My god, Volkov," Kazakov said, repulsed. "You're acting like we're going to die out there."

"I don't mean for it to sound that way. Just know that some of us probably won't be coming back."

"You're a sick little fucker, you know that?" Luchenko said as he grabbed Volkov by the collar. "You know what some of us have been going through?" He tried not to glance at Kazakov.

"Dammit, let go of me!" Luchenko loosened his grip and regained his normal demeanor. "I'm just trying to say that… Look. After you guys get back from this mission—and you WILL—check the safe under my bunk. There's some things in there I want you guys to have. The combination is 1-2-3-4-5."

"You're not going to die, Volkov. Quit acting so morbid," Kazakov reassured him.

"I know I won't die," Volkov said with a grin. "I've got to get to my bird. I'm the second flight out of here. You guys stay true. Don't believe everything you hear either."

Volkov turned and ran down the tarmac to the MiG ramp. Kazakov shook his head.

"What in god's name is wrong with him?"

"No idea," Luchenko said as the pair started back toward their Flankers. "What kind of idiot makes their safe combination 1-2-3-4-5?"


	6. Chapter 5  Numbers

**Chapter 5 - ****Opening Night**

"All pilots in sector four, are you in position?"

The flight leaders for each Su-27 and MiG-21 group along the northeast border reported back affirmative. Ground control had vectored the fighters into the positions they expected the enemy to appear. Thirty minutes ago the radar screens all along the Kalugan border with Yuktobania began lighting up. Dozens of slow moving low altitude signatures were detected heading towards Kaluga. They seemed to wander toward the border, sometimes disappearing and reappearing somewhere else a few seconds later. They were flying high enough to be seen by the air defense forces, but they kept flickering. Phantoms.

Kazakov was up there seemingly alone. There were only ten Su-27s on the patrol and they were stretched in pairs across nearly 600 kilometers. He knew his wingman was nearby but he couldn't see anything outside of the dim red glow of his cockpit.

"Two, you still on me?" he called, just to make sure.

"Roger that lead," the young Flanker pilot replied.

Kazakov felt a small bit of relief knowing that he had some backup if he needed it. The radar targets they were all being sent after moved slowly, but GCI was reporting nearly eighty in all.

"All Zvezda group pilots, switch your radars to search mode," GCI commanded. "You're going to be directing the MiGs from here on out. We'll give you course corrections and other alerts, but target designation is up to you."

The Flanker pilots did as ordered and began scanning the darkness with their electronic eyes. Immediately Kazakov's radar screen showed several small blips that blinked on and off as well as two or three larger signatures that were farther off and higher up. Kazakov synchronized targeting data with his wingman and radioed the four MiG-21s under his command to the location of the nearest slow moving blips. They were just crossing the border now. These blips were undoubtedly helicopters. There were too many of them and they were moving too slowly to be fighters or anything else. The Yukes had decided to use airborne troops for phase one. The choppers didn't pose much of a threat to Kazakov, but he knew there were more deadly things lurking behind them. His massive payload of ten air to air missiles gave him a bit of security but he knew it wouldn't be enough. They could only see part of the invasion force. More was coming. He could feel it.

"Why would they send choppers in first?" Volkov wondered aloud. His Su-27 had directed him toward four to six—they couldn't tell how many—signatures that had disappeared in Yuktobania and reappeared in Kaluga. They disappeared again shortly thereafter. Volkov's flight came in hot with their own radars scanning. No luck.

Volkov was getting anxious. He hadn't been recalled since taking off, so he was sure that no one had found his notes yet. He was still having second thoughts about it. The word "defection" rang through his mind. He would be a traitor to his country. He would escape with several million dollars worth of war plane and weapons and would undoubtedly be interrogated as to Kaluga's air defenses. If he cooperated, his friends would certainly suffer higher casualties. But staying behind would also be tough. Could he live under an oppressive regime? Farcical elections and murdered heads of state would become the norm for Kaluga. He was sure he would eventually be sent to bomb his own people. Somehow telling the Yukes how to kill Kalugans was better in some way than doing it himself. At least that's what he told himself. Volkov looked at his watch. 22:58. Almost there.

"Meteor 7-1, do you copy?" It was the commanding Su-27. "We've lost the contacts. What do you see?"

"Nothing on scope Zvezda 2-1," Volkov's flight lead replied. "We can't find 'em."

There was a sigh of exasperation. "We've had you guys flying up and down the damn border and you haven't seen a single thing. Are your radars turned on?"

Volkov's lead grunted. "They are indeed. Is yours working properly?"

"Look, I picked up targets!" the Flanker pilot yelled. "I can't find them anymore! Don't blame me because you can't find the bastards either!"

"Zvezda!" the MiG flight leader roared. "There is NOTHING OUT HERE! Our other flights can't find anything. YOU can't find anything. WE haven't found anything! Do you want us to just start firing our cannons into the darkness?"

Silence was the reply.

Meteor 7-1 sighed. "Meteor flight, continue your search. Spread out and get low. I don't want anything landing in the forests out here without us knowing about it."

The planes followed their orders. The pilots were all scared of what might be out there and didn't know what they were dealing with. Except for one. Volkov was genuinely confused and just wanted to know what the hell was going on. He wasn't afraid for his safety or wondering if a missile was going to appear out of the black and strike him down.

"There's nothing out here…" he whispered.

Suddenly, the loud hiss of static filled the pilots' headsets. Volkov was startled by it and began trying the auxiliary channels. Nothing there either. A glance at his radar confirmed that this was no malfunction. The whole screen was white.

23:00.

"Good god…" Kazakov froze. He couldn't hear anyone else, he couldn't see, and he was too far away from anything for his infra red tracker to pick up targets. He remembered his training years ago in the MiG-23s. The instructor put shades inside the canopy and turned off the radios to simulate this very circumstance. It was all instruments and the memorized flight patterns from there. But in the present, Kazakov hesitated. After a few short moments of confusion he tried the other radio channels as well as a different setting on his radar. The jamming was too strong. He had nothing.

Volkov had frozen as well. He was floored by the shear enormity of the situation. No one could see him, no one could hear him. This was it!

"Yes!"

Volkov checked his fuel gauge and heading. He had about fifteen minutes left of flight time left and his drop tank was on fumes. He didn't know how long the jamming was going to last or how long it would take his comrades to burn through it, so he had to act now. Turning his MiG-21 nearly due east, Volkov slid the throttle to afterburner and felt the force slam him back into his seat. He eased the stick back and ascended above the known elevations of the low mountains in the area. The seconds crawled by. Volkov's stomach felt queasy and his hands shook. Was he really doing this? He glanced at his HUD.

_929 kph and increasing, Heading 090, Altitude 3400 meters and climbing._

Oh, this was real.

He checked his fuel once again and released his empty centerline tank just before breaking the sound barrier. The radio was still effectively useless but he could hear some garbled transmissions coming through. Nothing he could make out, though. His radar was still snow white. Volkov realized and switched it out of search mode. He wasn't going to provide a target for any Yukes that might mistake him for an intruder…

"Son of a bitch!"

Volkov remembered the most important thing: the transponder code. He was sure he hadn't crossed the border yet and still had some time. He eased the throttle back to military power and leaned over to adjust his transponder to the correct setting.

He was home free now. The border would be coming up in another minute or so at this speed. Volkov still had enough fuel to get well inside Yuktobania. If he couldn't find an airfield or a civilian airstrip somewhere, he'd try his best to find a highway or a long field. Otherwise, he would have to bail out. But it didn't matter. He was leaving it all behind one way or the other. Volkov calculated his position once more and looked at his navigation map on his knee. Here he was. Yuktobania.

"Kaz…ov, can… read me…?" The radio was clearing up but it was still hard to make out complete sentences. Kazakov keyed his microphone to reply.

"I can barely hear you," he said, slowly. "Luchenko, is that you?"

"You got me. We're… trying to burn… the interference…"

More tinkering with the radio settings and channels was fixing the problem. Shortly, all of the Flankers and most of the MiG-21 flight leads were back in contact with one another. Confusion was still rampant. Radio calls flooded the airwaves as flight leads checked to see if any planes had been lost in the chaos. Most of the flights were radioing in affirmative, but a few couldn't be reached.

"All planes, this is GCI Dimitr." The ground control operator finally was able to communicate. "We're trying to work through this jamming and get those radar contacts back."

"You idiots!" one of the MiG leaders hollered. "There wasn't anything out there!"

Several of the other fighters confirmed. The ground controllers were bewildered. "Our radars are still being jammed heavily… uh, we'll confirm all targets have left the area as soon as we can get a clear picture."

Kazakov rolled his eyes and keyed his mic. "This is Zvezda 4-1, Meteor 2-1, do you copy?"

"Roger that, Zvezda 4-1," the MiG leader replied through the remnants of static.

"You lose anybody?"

"Negative, 4-1. But some of the other flights have."

Kazakov's brow wrinkled. "Who?"

"Meteor 7 lost their number three, Meteor 9 lost their number two and Meteor 1 lost their lead AND number four."

"Wait, Meteor 7-3 is gone?"

"Affirmative. They can't get any response from him and GCI said his transponder isn't on the right frequency. Without radar they can't be sure if he went down or if he just got lost and his radio's fried."

"Volkov…"

The events of the last few weeks raced through Kazakov's head. Volkov's cryptic message before takeoff suddenly made sense.

"Zvezda 2-1, you hear that?"

"Sure do, 4-1," Luchenko replied. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I am. But I don't want to believe it."

Volkov was searching for anything at this point. So far there was nothing. He scanned the dark ground for anything resembling a landing strip or runway lights. He couldn't land on an unlit field in the middle of the night. He wasn't sure why he thought this would be the easy part. He had been inside Yuktobania for around twelve minutes and must have been at least 100 kilometers past the border. But he was also dangerously low on fuel. It was much harder to tell any landmarks here. Volkov hadn't realized that Yuktobania was so… barren. It was more mountainous than northeastern Kaluga, but even Kaluga had towns and cities in the mountains. Cars moved about on the highways and even the occasional train could be seen even at odd hours of the night. But not here. The moonlight was bright enough to show some of the land below and what Volkov saw was not welcoming. Grid patterns covered the floors of the valleys but there were barely any lights on. He thought he had spotted a small farming community earlier, but it turned out to be the center of a fairly sizable city. Even at midnight the city's darkness seemed out of place. The anxiety in Volkov's stomach returned, this time with more force. He was scared.

He glanced out the front of his cockpit. His fear turned to terror. A large hulking figure was lumbering toward him. Volkov yanked the stick in an attempt to avoid the mass. The right wing of his MiG clipped the giant plane. Volkov was jolted from the impact. Immediately his MiG was spinning out of control, minus the starboard wing. Fighting the forces of the spin, Volkov managed to yank the ejection handle. It was either the odd angle from which he ejected or the combined forces of the out of control spin that did it, but Volkov was knocked out cold when his seat left the cockpit. He regained consciousness moments later, safely floating to the outskirts of the dark Yuktobanian city below. The glow in front of him came not from the city, but from the burning Tu-22 Blinder falling out of the sky. The tail was conspicuously absent from the rest of the airframe and its engines spat flames as it fell.

Volkov breathed heavily as he watched the Blinder careen into a mountain slope.

"That one was for you, fellas."

"All planes, this is GCI Dimitr, our picture is clear!"

Cheers and sighs of relief resounded through the radar control room. The pilots felt a similar relief, now being able to see. For them it was more important—they were the first line of defense. There were no phantom radar blips anymore. To the north and to the south there seemed to be more jamming, but there was a hole to the east.

"All planes, this is Zvezda 4-1, which one of you took out that jammer?"

No one could confirm the kill.

"Kaz," Luchenko said. "You think it was one of the 'defectors?'"

"Who knows? But if they can take the things out, we can too. Half of what we're carrying is anti-radar ordnance." Kazakov's mind was racing now. "These anti-radar missiles will home into a jamming signal just as well as to a radar source."

"Sounds reasonable so far, 4-1. Don't count on a kill though."

"Another kill would be too ambitious. We just need them to either stop jamming or turn around so we can fucking see!"

"Affirmative," Luchenko responded. "GCI, you catch that?"

"Sure did, 2-1. Zvezda group, you have clearance to attack the jamming sources but DO NOT cross into Yuktobanian territory. Meteor groups, continue patrols and begin refueling rotation back to your respective bases."

"Roger that!" Luchenko thundered. "Zvezda 6, you're with me. Zvezda 8, you're on Zvezda 4. Kaz, I'll hit the northern jammer, you get the one to the south."

"Can do, boss," Kazakov radioed. "Be careful out there."

"You too, pal."

As the friends parted, the Flankers formed up and began their treacherous journey into the static.

* * *

><p>The first bombs began to fall on the city of Tserkhov shortly after eleven PM. Tserkhov was the second of two small industrial towns in Kaluga's northern plains. Borasov, to the west, held dozens of machinery factories and a large rail yard. Tserkhov was home to Kaluga's main agricultural and industrial university, where thousands of students attended to learn the newest trades from farming to mechanical engineering. One such student was Andrei Ivanovich Pavlenko. Andrei was awakened by an unfamiliar droning sound. He shook the sleep from his eyes and back to consciousness. The droning sound didn't stop. Andrei had heard it before—it was an air raid siren. But the only time he ever heard them going off was during tests, and they never tested the sirens in the middle of the night. Andrei got up, walked to the window of his small dormitory room and pulled the curtain back. The orange glow of the city lights reflecting off the low hanging clouds hurt his eyes. As he looked out the window he noticed something that was not normal for the city—some lights seemed to flash. Andrei saw white flashes behind some buildings in the distance, then another series of flashes further to the north. Then he noticed other flashes too, this time to the west.<p>

"_What's going on?_ "

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if to force out the last bit of sleepiness from his body. When he opened his eyes the scene outside was different. The whole city had suddenly lost power. Andrei blinked to make sure he could still see. He could—he noticed more flashes on the horizon. He also noticed that the air raid siren had stopped. The power must have knocked it out. Without the siren Andrei could hear a strange sound coming from outside. He opened his window. Short, low rumbles could be heard in the distance. They seemed to follow the flashes. Andrei stood and listened and watched the black city outside his window. This time a new sound could be heard—jet engines.

"_This can't be. This isn't happening._"

Andrei was startled by a sudden loud knocking on his door.

"Who is it?" Andrei yelled.

"It's me, Yuri," the voice replied. It was Andrei's friend. "Are you awake?"

Andrei walked over to the door and opened it. He was greeted by the beam from Yuri's flashlight. "Get that out of my face," he said, shielding his eyes.

"Sorry." Yuri put the flashlight down. "Andrei, it's happened! It's happened just like I said it would!"

"What's happened?" Andrei asked, seriously. He noticed that Yuri had a small suitcase with him. "Yuri, what's going on?"

"The Yukes—they're bombing us!"

"You're not serious."

"Yes, I am. Can't you see what's going on outside? Didn't you hear the sirens?"

Andrei turned and looked out his window once more. There seemed to be more flashes, followed by the same booms.

"What do we do then?" He asked his friend. "It can't be safe here."

"It isn't. We've got to leave soon. Get some clothes on and pack a few things."

Andrei did as he was told and the two young men went downstairs and walked out onto the street. Yuri lead Andrei to a car parked in front of the building. Two of their friends were already inside, both clutching their bags. Andrei and Yuri were some of the only students left at the university. It was a holiday weekend and most students lived in different cities and had gone home. Nevertheless, there were several students trickling out of the dormitories with suitcases in hand.

"Yuri, we've got to go get Tanya," Andrei pleaded.

"Dammit, she's safe at the pub," Yuri countered. "Her parents are there and they all know what to do. Besides, she's all the way across town."

"Goddammit, Yuri!" Andrei shoved his friend to the cold ground. "This is no time for arguing!"

Andrei sped around to the driver's door of the car and got in. Yuri scrambled off the ground and into the passenger side.

"You're a lovestruck dope, you know that?" Yuri chided. Andrei shifted the car into gear and squealed the tires as they left the parking spot. He paid no attention to his friend's nagging. Andrei sped down the streets as citizens who also realized what was happening exited their buildings and headed for their own cars.

"Sorry fellas," Andrei said, at last. "If we're getting out of town then we're going to get her whether you like it or not."

"We can't just leave her," a voice from the back seat proclaimed, accepting the fact that they had no choice.

"Fine," Yuri ceded as he crossed his arms. "But don't come crying to me when you get us all killed."


	7. Chapter 6 And the Madness Continues

**Chapter 6 – And the Madness Continues…**

Luchenko's quartet of Flankers sped north along the Yuke border, journeying into interference filled skies. They were just now crossing the crest of the central mountain range, the spine of Kaluga. As the flight traveled on the jamming—as well as the storm clouds below—became thicker. Their radars were almost completely white. Luchenko was having one hell of a time staying in radio contact with his wingmen.

"Jamming's getting stronger," he slowly called over the radio. "All planes, ready anti-radiation missiles. Might as well do it now while we can somewhat hear each other."

The other pilots crackled "affirmative" through the hissing radios.

Luchenko decided to try and contact a ground control center before the jamming got any stronger. There was a center in Tserkhov that would be able to tell him how bad the jamming was. He tried to raise them on the radio.

"GCI-Tserkhov, do you copy?"

Nothing. He tried again.

"GCI-Tserkhov, do you read? This is Zvezda 2-1."

Through the static he thought he heard an answer. No one directly responded, but he could definitely make out muffled voices. There seemed to be quite a commotion in the control room.

"Zvezda 6-1, can you hear anything?"

"Barely, 2-1. Can't make much out but it doesn't sound like any of them are paying attention to us."

"Right," Luchenko said, pondering the situation. "They must be getting jammed harder than we are. The sooner we take these jammers out, the sooner we can get in contact with GCI."

Scratchy transmissions continued to come from ground control. Luchenko didn't feel right about it. He couldn't make out a single word but the people sounded… almost panicked… Ideas on what was going on with GCI bounced around in his head, but he suppressed them. Luchenko never tried to jump to conclusions. He prided himself in hardly ever jumping to conclusions or preparing for one thing more than any other. He wanted to be prepared for anything that came his way. And when his radar was white and he couldn't hear any transmissions from ground control, anything could happen.

"All pilots, ready up. Let's zero in on where this jamming looks like it's coming from and go in hot." He slowed down so his flight could make his instructions out through the static. "Arm your R-27s with the anti-radiation seekers. By the time we get in any sufficient range, we won't be able to contact each other by radio. Once I fire my missiles, the rest of you follow. Keep your radars on standby. Do not emit. We don't want to advertise our presence to the jammer. Only use your infra-red scanners. It won't let us see far, but it's better than nothing. If we kill this thing, be ready to activate your search radars and arm normal R-27s. Is all that understood?"

"Roger that, lead," 2-2, 6-1, and 6-2 replied.

"Good. Go radio silent and wait for my signal."

With that, the four hunters turned toward the source and traveled on.

* * *

><p>The small, cramped car flew through the damp streets tossing its occupants about. It had misted rain before the chaos began and pools of water stood in the potholes of the damaged asphalt. The car and its driver seemed to ignore the poor condition of the streets as it sped through the narrow city streets. The passengers could not ignore the violent ride. Andrei had been able to see the bombs falling from his tall dormitory back at the university, but now the canyons of old buildings hid what lay in the distance. It was for the best. No one wanted to see what was coming their way.<p>

"This is her street," Andrei said to no one in particular as he swung the car through an intersection and down a winding alley. A few seconds later the car screeched to a halt in front of an old tavern next to a vacant factory. Andrei got out of the car and rushed to the door. His three friends followed apprehensively. The streets were eerily quiet. Any other night at this time the street would be bustling. Despite being nestled in a bloc of factories, the bar as well as a few other shops and meeting places nearby would be well populated.

Muffled bangs and rumbles could be heard in the distance.

Andrei knocked at the door.

"Mr. Uskov! It's Andrei!" He banged on the door some more. "Mr. Uskov? Tanya? Are you here? Anyone?"

No answer.

"Andrei, they're probably in the cellar. They can't hear us." Yuri said. He was becoming more and more afraid. The bar was closer to the explosions than the university. Yuri always knew this day was coming, but he didn't want to be around to experience it.

"We need to leave," one of the other companions said, nervously.

Andrei continued pounding at the door. Then, it opened with a large creak. It was Tanya.

She leapt out the door and into Andrei's arms. The two embraced tightly as if they hadn't seen each other in decades.

"I've been scared," Tanya said quietly.

"Me too," replied Andrei. "What are you doing still here?"

"Excuse me? What are _you_ still doing here?" she scolded.

"I came to get you. It's not safe."

"I know. I can't convince Papa to leave," Tanya said, helplessly. "He's in the cellar now with his rifle."

"Maybe we can help persuade them," Yuri said. "We're not exactly planning on staying ourselves."

More bombs rumbled in the distance. Andrei felt Tanya shiver.

"Come on," he said as he held her tight. "Let's go inside where it's safe."

The five entered the bar and bolted the door behind them. The interior was dark, save for a few candles to fight the blackout. Tanya took one from the counter and grabbed Andrei's hand. She led the men down a hall to a dead end. An open hatch in the floor revealed a spiral staircase leading down to the cellar.

"Papa, Andrei and his friends are here," she announced.

"Come on down. It's safe," came the reply.

They shuffled down the stairs to the cellar. Mr. Uskov was seated on an overturned cask of sherry in the corner clutching a Mosin Nagant rifle close to his chest.

"You fellas here for the long haul?" He asked from behind his tangled white beard.

"I don't think so," Andrei said, still holding Tanya's hand. She was still trembling. "It's the Yukes. I'm sure you know."

Mr. Uskov nodded.

"We're not safe in this city," Yuri interjected. "We're too close to the border. No matter how they're coming, they'll come here first." Yuri had been watching the situation between the countries for several years now. He predicted that they would intervene in Kaluga's revolution. He said it would be violent. His friends dismissed him as a pessimist. But so far he had been right.

"He's right, Papa," Tanya admitted. "We all need to leave."

Mr. Uskov shook his head. "I can't."

"Papa, we have to. They'll hurt you when they arrive."

Uskov stood up and leaned the rifle against the wall. "Tanya…" He smiled a crooked smile. "In all my years if I've learned one thing, it's this: Soldiers love to drink after they settle down. Your friend may know quite a bit about how the Yukes think, but not everything they do is blind nationalism. They may ransack the city, they may burn it to the ground, they may beat the citizens—but at the end of the day, they're going to need a place to drink."

Yuri's face turned into a scowl. "You're planning on comforting the enemy?" He shouted.

"Comforting? Ha!" Uskov laughed heartily. "Think of it as buying insurance."He stretched out his arms and gestured to the wine racks and whiskey barrels. "This is insurance for our safety. There's no flag above our door. Call me a traitor for getting the occupying forces smashed if you want, but I know that they will need this."

Tanya was holding back tears. "Papa, you don't want to stay. You don't know what they'll do to you."

"Hush, my child," her father hugged her with his massive arms. "I'm an old man. They'll be kind if they know what's good for them. It's you we worry about. You're young and beautiful. If anything were to happen to you, I'd never forgive myself. And like you said, it's not safe here. You must go."

Tanya burst into tears.

The cellar was shaken by a blast from outside.

"That was close," Yuri said, nervously looking at the ceiling. "We need to be going."

Andrei put his hand on Tanya's shoulder. She looked at Andrei and her father. Their eyes both said the same thing—they feared for her safety. She sighed and kissed her father on the cheek, giving him one last hug.

"You'll make it," he reassured her with a tearful smile. "You'll make it."

She turned to face Andrei. "Come on," he said. "We've got to go now. That last bomb was too close." She nodded. He took her hand and led her to the stairs. Yuri and the two others were already halfway up.

"Be careful, Tanya," her father called. "I love you."

"I love you too," came the reply just as the hatch at the top of the stairs closed.

* * *

><p>"Come on you bastards, where are you…" Luchenko muttered under his breath.<p>

His eyes bounced back and forth from his radar warning receiver to his infra-red scanner to the night sky. He could only hear heavy static on his radio at this point. Heavy clouds hung in the sky below the group's flight level and were shielding their view of the ground. From his map and calculations Luchenko knew that the Tserkhov/Borasov metro area was just to the west. If the clouds weren't there he would be able to see the cities.

Luchenko's RWR was going nuts. It had steadily been going crazier and crazier the farther north he went and now it was flashing like a strobe light. He was close. Luchenko applied a bit of right rudder and swung his Su-27. His wingmen followed suit. His RWR blinked more rapidly. A bit more right rudder… The blinking trailed off just a bit.

"I've got you now," Luchenko said confidently.

He swung the Flanker back to the left and pulled the trigger on his stick. A 4-meter long missile zoomed off the rail, followed by a second. On cue, his three wingmen launched missiles of their own. The orange plumes of fire propelled the deadly R-27Ps into the distance toward whatever they could find.

Luchenko waited.

The missiles disappeared into the distance. The radio was still scrambled and his radar remained white. Luchenko breathed heavily as he counted to himself.

And then it happened.

Luchenko jumped when the radio came back to life. A dozen voices chattered in his headset all at once. The RWR stopped blinking and the radar screen was clear. He couldn't believe it had worked. Luchenko switched the radio channels to speak to his wingmen.

"Bravo boys, looks like we did it."

"Indeed we did, 2-1," replied 6-1. "What now?"

"6-1, you and your wingman fan out and start scanning the airspace. We may not have much more time until a jammer comes back. I'm not even sure if we killed it outright. Me and 2-2 are going to head below the clouds and see what we've got going on down there."

"Roger that," radioed the pilot. 6-1 and 6-2 broke away from the formation as Luchenko and his wingman dove down through the clouds.

As he descended, Luchenko tried hailing ground control once more.

"GCI-Tserkhov, this is Zvezda 2-1. Do you copy?"

"We read you Zvezda!" an out of breath controller replied. "Thank God you've come! They're bombing us to hell and back! The jamming just lifted and now our scopes are clear. We didn't know what we were dealing with. It's a madhouse!"

"Slow down, Tserkhov," Luchenko said. "It's me, my wingman and another group of two. We're heading down through the clouds now and we'll do what we can. Vector us to the nearest group of targets."

"There's no way!" the desperate controller cried. "They're everywhere!"

Luchenko's plane broke through the floor of the clouds and emerged into the madness. Momentarily he froze at the sight. Portions of the city were on fire and explosions could be seen throughout the metropolis. The fires cast a hazy orange glow on the clouds. Rain misted down, making everything shine and the fires glisten. Rain droplets began forming on the fighters' windscreens as they cut through the air. Luchenko regained composure and switched his radar on. The dish made one traverse and showed a dismal situation. Ground control was right—there were planes everywhere.

"Shit… 2-2, you got this?"

"Roger…" Luchenko's wingman was similarly overwhelmed.

GCI-Tserkhov continued to plea for help. Luchenko snapped out of it and acted swiftly.

"2-2, stick with me," he ordered as he steered toward the nearest group of three radar signatures. "6-1, get down here below the clouds. This is where the action is."

"Confirmed, 2-1. We're on our way."

Luchenko locked up a target in a formation just off his nose. "2-2, you get the wingman, I'll take the lead." He fired an R-27 and guided it home. His wingman did the same. The enemy radar signatures stayed on track for a bit but started separating as the missiles closed in. It was no use. The two missiles connected and blew the pair out of the sky. The third plane dove and accelerated to escape the danger. Luchenko fired his afterburner and locked up the fleeing target. His HUD beeped and a soft mechanical voice notified him that he was too close for R-27s. Luchenko switched to heat seekers and closed in. The Flanker ran down its target and soon the radar blip turned into a glowing red ball in the distance. The plane was using every bit of power to retreat, but it was no use. A tone sounded in Luchenko's headphones—the missile had a lock. Luchenko squeezed the trigger. As the missile hunted for its target the prey banked sharply. Against the glowing city below, the silhouette appeared to show a short, squad plane with square wings full of teeth—it was a Yuktobanian Su-25. Flares popped out of the Frogfoot's back in an effort to defeat the missile but the hot engines offered a more inviting target. The heat seeker slammed into the bomber, giving Luchenko his second confirmed kill of the night.

Luchenko had no time to celebrate. His wingman shouted that there were more contacts closing in. The pair of Flankers turned toward two fighters coming in high and fast. Radar homing missiles this time.

"Lock them up quick, 2-2. This'll be a knife fight if we don't get them now."

Luchenko's hands performed the actions almost automatically and launched two missiles at the incoming bandits. The targets changed course; the missiles followed suit. Suddenly, 2-2's radar warning receiver lit up.

"2-1, they've got me!"

"Break off!"

The Flanker banked hard and popped chaff and flares. His radar lost the lock on the incoming planes and the missiles trailed off into the distance. Luchenko's didn't fare any better. The enemy planes were coming in too fast for the missiles to acquire a good lock and they flew past the targets harmlessly, waiting for directions from Luchenko's radar that would never come. The pair of bandits banked hard to the left and swooped down in front of Luchenko's flight path. He yanked the stick back to avoid a collision. His reaction was hasty—he knew it. Now he fought to get a good position on the planes that just buzzed him. Luchenko rolled to the right and pointed his nose toward the ground. The planes he merged with were below him, afterburner lit, on a bombing run. They had the outline of Su-17 fighter bombers—and they were fast. Luchenko dove after them, switched to heat seekers and blasted his last two at the Fitters ahead of him.

The Fitter pilots were determined. Either that or stupid. They were obviously ignoring the missile warnings their own cockpits were giving them. Luchenko watched as his missiles closed in on the hot tailpipes of the bombers. The pilots never so much as attempted to outmaneuver the missiles. They popped a few flares as their attack run continued, but that was it. They launched a massive volley of rockets from their huge oil-drum sized rocket pods just before the heaters struck. Both R-60s hit the trailing plane and caused it to break apart instantly. The lead finished his rocket run and opened fire with his cannon. Luchenko couldn't see what they were firing on but he did see the result. Explosions erupted from the city below as the rockets met their marks. Luchenko flipped a switch and fired a burst of cannon fire toward the Su-17, but to no effect. The successful pilot turned away and screamed away to the north at rooftop level.

"2-1, this is 6-1, you as busy as we are?"

Luchenko checked over his shoulder for his wingman and climbed once he saw he was still there. "Sure are, 6-1," he said as he lifted his Flanker higher into the air and searched for a close set of targets—there were still so many. "How many have you downed?"

"I've taken one and my wingman has two. There's still a dozen or more out here."

"I'm seeing the same thing," Luchenko replied as he locked up a distant target moving across his radar's field of view. He pulled the trigger and began guiding the radar to the target. "I'm at three and my wingman is at one."

"We're running low on fuel and we're out of missiles. We're breaking off and heading south. All four of us can't take this. We're going to need help."

Luchenko had forgotten all about fuel. He glanced down at his gauges. Good thing too—he had a bit more than enough to get home. But just barely. "We're close on fuel too." His radar showed the targeted fighter disappear as his missile hit. "Make that four for me."

"2-1, I've still got a few missiles," Luchenko's wingman said. "There's an airbase just west of here we can refuel at."

Luchenko pondered for a moment. "GCI-Tserkhov, what is the status on our airbase to the west?"

A frantic shuffle could be heard in ground control. They were still trying to regain control of the situation. "Uh, Zvezda 2-1, the airbase to the west reports that it has been hit with a few missiles from supersonic bombers. They got a few of our planes there on the ground. But for now it's quiet."

Luchenko frowned. "Negative, 2-2. We can't risk it. Let's turn south and head back to Laconda. You too, Zvezda 6."

"Six Flight reads you, 2-1"

Luchenko's wingman was silent. He didn't want to leave the city here, defenseless.

"Pasha," Luchenko called. "We will return. We're not going to leave the people here for long."

His reassurance was met with a heavy sigh. "Whatever you say, Zvezda 2-1."

Luchenko didn't like it. He knew even ground control was dissatisfied with the decision, but the situation presented no alternative. He and his wingman turned south, reconnected with Zvezda 6 flight and climbed above the clouds. A short, silent flight over the mountains ended the only minutes-long dogfight.

* * *

><p>It had begun to rain heavier. The windshield wipers on the little car struggled to keep the glass clear as it sped down the city streets. Andrei was once again behind the wheel, giving the car everything it could take. And with five occupants, it was almost too much. The group had left the bar and headed south, out of the city.<p>

Yuri hadn't been able to stop talking since they left the bar. He opined about the political situation and how he saw it coming. He shared his thoughts on what the Yukes would do once they took control of the town. He pondered what the Kallugan military might do and how it would perform against the Red Juggernaut. Tanya and Andrei had been silent through most of his ramblings, but when Yuri started to talk about the people staying behind to "aid the occupiers" Tanya turned around in her seat and gave Yuri a strong look. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks stained with tears. Yuri offered a half-hearted apology and decided to comment instead on Andrei's driving.

The overloaded car soon came to a roadblock near the outskirts of the cities. A Kalugan tank stood in the middle of the road, flanked by rain soaked troops. Andrei stopped the car and rolled down the window.

"We're, uh, trying to get out of town. Why is the road blocked?"

"We're trying to keep this route clear for other troops to come in." The soldier looked almost as young as Andrei—and even more scared. He struggled to find the words to say as he squeezed the grip on his AK-47. "Um, we're telling everyone we see to go southeast."

"In the hills?" asked Yuri from the back seat.

"Yes," replied the soldier. "We think that Dimitr may be the safest place to go, so we're ordering people to go there."

Andrei glanced at his companions. "What do you think?"

"Anywhere but here," one of the friends replied.

Andrei looked at Tanya. "Might as well."

She nodded quietly. Andrei thanked the soldier and turned down the street he was directed to. They were finally leaving the inferno behind.


End file.
